Prisoners of the Dance
by Cropper
Summary: Grissom and Sara in Medieval England. Warning - This is definitely AU.
1. Prologue

Title: Prisoners of the Dance

Author: Cropper

Rating: Mature for Violence, Disturbing Imagery, Adult Situations

Spoilers: None

Pairing: Grissom/Sara and some others just for fun

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Never have, never will.

Summary: AU...definitely AU. Grissom and Sara in Medieval England.

Author's Notes:

This whole mess started as a onehour2write History 101 challenge. When I started the research, however, I knew there was no way I could finish the fic by the community deadline. I shelved the story until 1 November and it then became my NaNoWriMo project.

As always, many, many thanks to my fantastic betas, Smacky30 and Cincoflex. They are terrific betas and wonderful friends. Sidle77, ssidleismyidol (Simi), and Snowydragon1776 deserve shout outs as well for keeping my head where it was supposed to be and for cheering me on. Sidle77 also has created some awesome artwork and a video for this fic that can be found on my website. The URL is in my author's profile.

And...I would be most remiss if I did not acknowledge my fellow Eejits as well. They may not have known what I was up to the past month but they are always there watching my back and cheering me on. Thank you, ladies.

One final note...when I started this story, I was unaware that the fabulous mingsmommy was writing a similar story set in pretty much the same time period. I have yet to read her amazing fic, Madrigal, for fear that I would inadvertantly adopt some of her story into my own. Any parallels between our two stories are purely coincidental.

**Prologue**

_**It's been a long, long journey down the river through the night  
It's been a long, long journey, you were not in sight  
It's been a long, long journey, now I want to touch the light**_

The air was cold, biting; the crisp autumn morning filled with the damp, musky scent of earth and the odor of decaying leaves. The frigid wind was not yet tainted with the acrid breath of fear or the choking coppery stench of blood, nor was the rain-muffled serenity yet broken by the clanging of swords and heart-piercing screams of the wounded and dying. All of that was yet to come, when the land would receive its bounty, cradling the dead and absorbing the tears of those left behind.

Shrouded by the relentless mist, a solitary knight sat confidently upon his charger and calmly regarded the craggy plain with a practiced eye. One more battlefield, one more useless tract of barren sod stretched before him, one more God-forsaken croft he had been ordered to defend in his lifetime of service as the King's champion. Silently cursing the freezing rain, he frowned, pondering the strategic value of this stone-riddled field where he would once again be forced to draw his sword and spill blood. He understood, dispassionately and intellectually, the need for this latest show of force but could no longer separate his personal feelings from those of the professional soldier residing within him enough to make sense of the slaughter of innocents, of mere boys barely past their teens who stood ill equipped and unprepared to face a contingent of well-trained knights. He was tired: tired of the fighting and of the waste and of the futility.

_**Momentary madness that I should let you go  
Momentary madness to call and tell you so  
Momentary madness can be a lifetime, don't you know**_

Unbidden by conscious thought, his mind conjured an image, one of unbelievable softness and warmth. She was there, just out of reach as always, but ever in his heart. He could see her riding toward the plain, her long dark hair flowing unfettered in the wind as she urged her mount onward at break-neck speed. She was coming for him at last, calling him home, bidding him to lay down his arms and fight no more. It was a dream he had often, one of hearth and home, with his lady fair standing by his side on a brilliant summer day as they watched their young sons tussle upon the ground.

_**Still I'm a believer in the mystery train  
I am a receiver in the mark of Cain  
I am a believer in a grace of rain  
I am a believer in a grace of rain**_

A soft whinny stirred him from his fanciful musings. He reached forward to stroke the roan's neck and murmur soothingly in his ear, noting with a sense of deepening melancholy that his charger bore the same cruel marks of passing time, as did he. Odysseus' once smooth coat was nicked with scars from all but forgotten campaigns and his mane and muzzle shot through with gray. Indeed, the horse, like the knight astride his sturdy back, looked every bit the aging warrior. Both knew, somehow, that this would be their last stand and, should God smile favorably down upon them, they would finally be rewarded with that ever-elusive peace they had so long fought to attain.

_**Faithless heart's a sailor, blowing in the sails  
Believing he is moving as if the wind had failed  
Faithless heart's a sailor, blowing in the sails**_

Across the field the opposition had assembled. A tall imposing figure mounted on a jet-black stallion hurled taunts at the well-disciplined knights in an attempt to turn the advantage towards his company of rag-tag farmers and peasants. The champion, that solitary figure on the graying roan, took his place before his men and slowly, deliberately unsheathed his gleaming broad sword.

_**I'm a man without ritual, I'm a man without desire  
A man without ritual who's looking all the time  
Still a man without ritual is always out of line**_

He looked over his shoulder at his armored warriors before turning his attention to his foe, absently fingering the worn ebony beads secured to his belt, his lips moving in silent prayer.

_"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus ventris tui, lessus._

_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae."__1_

The Black Monk reverently kissed the gold cross hanging on a golden chain about his neck before slipping it back beneath his maille hauberuk. Raising his sword he drew a final cleansing breath, lungs burning from the wet, stinging air before releasing it in a blood-curdling cry as he spurred his charger over the sodden turf.

The battle was met.

_**Still I'm a believer in the mystery train  
I am a receiver in the mark of Cain  
I am a believer in a grace of rain  
I am a believer in a grace of rain**__**2**_

1 "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death."

2 "A Grace of Rain" Words and Music by John Stewart. _The Secret Tapes II_ (Homecoming, 650, 1987; _Neon Beach_ Homecoming, 700, 1990).


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**_As long as the tires still cry on the highway  
As long as the dogs still die on the road  
As long as I wake up without knowing who I am  
I will always think of you as home_**

**London, September 1204**

Roasting beef, boar and venison hung from wooden spits that were being slowly turned over several enormous fire pits. They filled the smoky air hovering above the keep with their succulent aromas. A large, noisy crowd had assembled in the bailey of the King's Royal Castle to welcome back an elite brigade of knights who, some three or more years past, had won the honor of representing their God, King and country in a fourth crusade into the Holy Land.

Gentry and commoners alike reveled in the festivities, celebrating not only the return of friends and loved ones but also a bountiful harvest and the coming of autumn. Lords and serfs jostled one another as each strove to be the first to catch a glimpse of the returning heroes. The ladies preened slowly to and fro, taking the opportunity to show off their finest, brightest gowns. The whole of the bailey resembled a fertile summer croft awash with blooming wild flowers of vibrant purples, blues, yellows, reds and greens.

The path leading from the outer bailey to the inner bailey and door of the Great Hall had been covered with fresh rushes and strewn herbs. The Great Hall was a magnificent and imposing two-storied granite structure nestled into the base of the high earthen motte. High atop the motte stood a massive stone tower where sentries and heralds scanned the outlying roads for any sign of the returning knights.

Princess Sara breathed in the crisp autumn air and looked around the inner bailey with a wide smile. Deep red banners bearing the noble crest of her family hung upon the bailey walls. Flowers and fragrant herbs had been painstakingly woven together to hang over the doorway. She thought the castle looked much as it had on the day nearly four years prior when the knights had left to assemble in Venice to await transport to exotic regions far beyond the borders of England.

Celebrating and feasting had marked that day as well. Sara's heart had swelled with pride that her warrior, the King's own Knight Champion, the much-feared and revered Black Monk, had been leading the brigade. She had been consumed by an icy uneasiness, and every day since she had worried and fretted over the fate of that one splendid knight. Even now she feared a lone rider would approach the castle gate to tell her father of the death of her heroic warrior.

Riders had come and gone bearing news of the battles and of those in the King's brigade who had fallen in battle, but her knight's name had never been added to the death toll. They received word he had been gravely injured and those five months of uncertainty while they awaited further news of his fate had been the longest months of her young life. Finally, finally, a messenger arrived late one winter's night and Sara could rest easy for she knew her hero would return.

Minutes seemed to pass as hours while the crowd grew restless in anticipation. Sara struggled to maintain some sense of decorum befitting her position as the only child of King James, but her mounting excitement tempted her sorely to join some of the others her age and clamber atop a table or shimmy up a pole or ladder to get a better view of the road. She could never before remember being so overwhelmed with giddiness merely from the thought of seeing the Black Monk again. Throwing caution and dignity to the wind, she daintily climbed atop a rough-hewn wooden bench and craned her neck to see beyond the stone archway separating the inner bailey from the outer.

At long last, a sharp melodic cadence sounded from the Herald's trumpet. The brigade of knights had been spotted.

**_Every time I hear you say "John why are you leaving?"  
Bless it, my confession is a woman called the road  
And like the other woman, the road she gets jealous  
She knows there'll come a time I won't see her anymore_**

The thundering clatter of hooves on the wooden bridge spanning the moat was buried beneath the deafening roar of the crowd as the brigade finally rode into view. Sara's heart leapt with happiness as she spotted the legendary Black Monk, riding tall and confident as he led the column of triumphant knights into the bailey. His chain maille shone in the late afternoon sun and over his armor he wore a blood-red doublet bearing the crest of King James. A gleaming iron helm, silver save for golden-plated features representing his eyebrows, nose and beard, completely engulfed his entire head. Sara smiled fondly as she remembered the look of horror on his face when her father had first presented him with the helm.

_Grissom turned the shimmering iron monstrosity over and over in his thick hands, his face contorted in an almost comical look of bewildered disbelief. He turned his gaze upon James who had been struggling to restrain his mirth. "Gil," the King began, laughter evident in his voice, "I am just concerned for your welfare. This helm will completely cover that thick skull of yours and help protect you from a well-placed blow of the mace." _

_Grissom raised a skeptical eyebrow as if not fully accepting James' explanation. _

_"Humor me, Gil, and wear the helm. You have already earned a reputation as one of the most ferocious knights to ever mount a charger. This," he continued, waving a hand at the helm, "will completely hide your face and add to the legend and mystery surrounding the Black Monk."_

Armored, as he was, Lord Grissom, save for the mighty helm, looked much like every other knight in the column but Sara knew he was very different. Grissom was older than those trailing behind him, weary of his travels and toughened by long years of battle and countless campaigns. His heart had been necessarily hardened by the horrors he had seen and by the terrible acts he was forced to commit. She had not wanted him to leave, had begged him to stay and let the younger knights have their turn upon the field. She scowled fiercely when he gently spoke to her of duty and honor, of loyalty and sacred oaths. Sara understood he had little choice but that did not lessen the pain she felt when he left or the gnawing fear she lived with every day he was gone.

Sara climbed down from her perch and somberly bowed her head as the knights drew closer, reflecting for a moment on their vastly depleted ranks. Fifty stolid warriors had left, less than half returned. Gone now was the gleam, the luster. The sense of excitement and adventure which radiated from the young knights before their departure had been replaced with weariness; too much seen and too much lost. Oh, their maille had been polished, but all wore an air of men who had witnessed the deaths of friends and brothers as opposed to the almost giddy, chest-thumping braggarts who assembled in the very same place four years ago to drink in the well-wishes and adoration which accompanied their grand send off.

**_The road is my woman  
And she's never done me wrong  
And I'm true to her  
The road is my woman  
And she's here in this song  
And I'm true to her  
But not for long_**

Princess Sara hurried to rejoin the King as Grissom raised his right hand and called the column to halt before a large wooden podium in the center of the inner bailey. She felt his gaze upon her as she mounted the stairs of the dais to stand alongside her father and Queen Sofia, all the while praying she would not trip on the hem of her long gown in her haste and fall flat on her face right in front of him. He seemed to wait until she was settled before dismounting and approaching the platform. She watched him carefully, looking for any sign of obvious injury, smiling slightly at his distinctive gait. Grissom was fairly bow-legged from spending some twenty-odd years astride a charger and it lent a rather unique chunky roll to his brisk steps.

Lord Grissom stopped at the foot of the podium steps and deliberately pulled his gleaming broadsword from its polished leather sheath and planted the blade into the turf. He next removed his chain gauntlets and placed them on the ground beside his sword before doffing the great iron helm and padded linen coif beneath.

Sara's heart fluttered as she hungrily drank in his battle-worn features. Shaggy graying hair was swept back from his forehead and tied up with a strip of rawhide into small curly ponytail at nape of his sturdy neck. A few stray curls were matted to his forehead, the hair along his brow and neck darkened with sweat. Bronzed skin spoke of long hours spent in the sun and a newly acquired thin-red scar marred his right cheek, curving down from his right temple to disappear into his closely trimmed beard. His eyes, blue as the center of a candle's flame, still held a quiet intensity and appeared even more beautiful and compelling against his darkened skin and graying hair and beard.

She was a maid of sixteen when he went away but had been in love with him for as long as she could remember. His imposing appearance on this glorious afternoon reaffirmed in her mind that he was, despite the scars and silvering hair, the most handsome man she had ever seen.

Nervously smoothing her hand over an imagined wrinkle in her deep rose-colored gown, Sara felt Grissom's gaze dancing along her features and was deeply gratified to note the fond appreciation accompanying his frank appraisal. She covertly watched his guileless eyes as they roamed over her, feeling the heat of his stare as he traced every inch of her woman's body.

Her dark hair was gathered at the nape pf her neck, a long braid trailing down her back. Gossamer wisps of curls escaped here and there to frame her fine boned face. A veil matching her gown covered her silky tresses and a golden coronet perched atop the veil marked her status as royalty. Intricate patterns of golden embroidery decorated the square neck and flowing sleeves of her gown and a delicately wrought link belt sat about her hips accentuating her slender form.

She watched him watching her, and wondered what he was thinking. There had always been something special about Grissom; something about him that called to her heart, to her soul, stirring feelings that were foreign and wholly confusing deep within her woman's body. Perhaps it was the perpetual air of melancholy he wore about him like a mantle…one deep brown and mossy, the color of the earth in the darkened fens…murky and mysterious.

**_Rescue me sweet angel  
She stole me as a child  
To become a rider on her two-lane rodeo  
And then you came along  
Loving me for what I am  
I've been too long with a woman made of stone_**

Grissom reluctantly pulled his attention from the winsome Princess and dropped to one knee before the podium. He bowed his head, baring the back of his neck before his King in a show of vulnerability, fealty and submission.

"Grissom," the King chided softly as he descended the stairs to stand in front of his champion. "You need never kneel before any mortal man, especially me. Stand and greet me as an equal, not as a servant."

Grissom slowly rose to his full height and James received him as warmly as he would a brother with a long, tight embrace. He grasped the Black Monk by the shoulders and kissed the startled knight on both cheeks. Scowling fiercely, James scrubbed the back of his hand across his lips afterwards.

"I am glad women are not prone to furry cheeks," he grumbled. "And I am even happier I am not forced to kiss you very often." Grissom raised a questioning eyebrow. "You are prickly, my friend, and not very tasty." James flashed a wicked grin. "'Tis no small wonder that you are still unspoken for. That hoary face of yours would drive any woman away."

Sara discreetly hid a giggle behind her hand, delighted not only by her father's sardonic comments but also by the flush that had crept up the back of Grissom's neck in response to the teasing. Her gaze lingered on his face, her eyes tracing his beard. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her lips, beneath her fingertips, scratching lightly against her neck, against her….

She shook her head quickly to dispel her wanton thoughts and returned her attention to the activities. Sara felt the heat rising upon her face and deep within her stomach but whether the scarlet flush marking her features blossomed from embarrassment or something else, something unbidden and darkly exciting, she knew not.

Grissom regarded Sara with a strange expression before inclining his head politely to Queen Sofia and bestowing a quick impish grin and barely perceptible wink upon the Princess. Sara flushed with pleasure and returned his greeting with a smile, one that lit up her features and danced delightedly in her eyes. He then turned and inclined his head politely to Queen Sofia.

**_The road is my woman  
And she's never done me wrong  
And I'm true to her  
The road is my woman  
And she's here in this song  
And I'm true to her  
But not for long_**

Sara noticed that her father and Grissom were walking towards the door to the Great Hall and moved to take her place beside Sofia when her glance touched upon a strange youngster dressed in an over-large black wool tunic decorated only with a small red eight-pointed cross upon the left breast. She recognized the simple symbol immediately, as it was the same design Grissom displayed on his shield and right shoulders of his shirts. The lad, who could not have been more than four and ten, had messy, sun-bleached hair and was holding the reins to Grissom's roan charger while glancing nervously about the bailey.

The boy's eyes widened and he dropped to both knees as she left the side of her stepmother to approach him. Sara rolled her eyes at the quaking youth and bid him rise with a deft wave of her elegant hand while asking his name.

"I am Sandre, Princess," he mumbled, scrambling to his feet.

"How came you to be in the service of Lord Grissom?"

Sandre swallowed heavily, his brown eyes wide with fear. He opened his mouth to reply but promptly snapped it closed. "Relax, Squire," Sara smiled, noticing beads of sweat glistening in the fine down along the lad's upper lip. "I am not going to bite you or have you beheaded, at least not today," she said with a mischievous grin.

The boy blew out a nervous breath and haltingly started to relate his story. He was the only child of two deeply religious peasants and had traveled with his parents on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Their caravan, consisting of fifteen different families, was attacked one night by a band of masked raiders. His parents and almost everyone else in the camp that night had been brutally slaughtered, the broken bodies littering the desert floor, left where they had fallen for hungry scavengers.

Sara's eyes glistened with sorrow as Sandre's gaze dropped to the ground in an attempt to hide the lone tear tracking down his cheek. She reached out to touch him lightly on the arm. "How did you manage to escape?"

Sandre shook his head as if ashamed before telling her that only the urgent call of his bladder had spared him from the fate the others had been forced to suffer. He was a little bit away from the encampment when the attack had started. He hid in a bunch of scrub, listening helplessly until the raiders left. He then ran back to the camp to find that everyone had been slaughtered and their belongings ransacked. Sandre had heard the voice of one man in particular, the one who seemed to be in charge, and that cold, heartless voice haunted him with its cruelty.

He was left orphaned at the age of twelve and had to fend for himself. "I more or less hid during the day and scavenged for food at night." His eyes pleaded with Sara's for understanding, as if he feared she would brand him a coward for doing what was necessary simply to survive. "Lord Grissom's brigade came upon the site where my parents and the others were killed a few days later and I just attached myself to the company. I managed to follow them for about a week, sneaking into the camp when everyone was asleep to steal food."

"It is fine, Sandre. You did nothing wrong," Sara soothed. "I am sure the knight's would not have begrudged you the food had you made your presence known."

Sandre's lips twisted in a sardonic sneer as he continued to recount his tale. One night Sir Geoffrey, one of the knight's of the King's elite brigade, caught him attempting to take a crust of bread and bit of cheese. He was beaten and kicked for his thievery. Sir Geoffrey had Sandre bound hand and foot and was about to drag him out of camp behind his horse when Lord Grissom heard the cheering of the other knights and intervened on Sandre's behalf.

"He made Sir Geoffrey release me and took me back to his own tent. I thought he was going to beat me as well but he just fed me, pointed to his pallet and told me to go to sleep. The next morning Lord Grissom told me I was free to go and make my own way or I could stay with the brigade and serve as his squire." Sandre shrugged as he finished his long narrative. "That was two years ago and here I am still serving as his squire."

Sara's brow puckered as she thought back over some of the things Sandre had told her. "Have you ever heard the voice of the lead raider again?"

"Yes, but I have been forbidden by Lord Grissom to speak further of it. He said the matter was in his hands now and he would deal with it accordingly." Sara nodded, stemming her curiosity for the moment but making a mental note to ask Grissom about it later.

"And Lord Grissom, he treats you well?" Sara asked, changing the subject.

"I have to work very hard, but yes, he treats me well. He makes sure I am fed and that no one threatens me. He is teaching me how to fight and also how to read. But," Sandre scratched his cheek and scuffed his feet nervously in the dirt. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper so as not to be over heard. "I do not think Lord Grissom likes me overmuch. He oftentimes seems impatient and hardly ever speaks to anyone. He is kind of scary."

Sara laughed. "Lord Grissom can seem rather brusque at times but it is because he demands the same perfection of others which he demands of himself. Do not worry if he seldom speaks. I have known Lord Grissom my entire life and he has always been reticent. That is just his nature."

Sandre glanced around making sure no one was listening. "I think he intends to return me to my family as I am not formally bound to him, but I don't want to go." He wrinkled his nose, clearly displeased with the prospect. "My uncle farms for Lord Braun not far from here and I fear that shall be my fate as well. I honestly have no desire to be stuck behind a plow horse the rest of my life."

"You do not wish to return to your family or you do not wish to be a farmer?"

"Both, Milady," Sandre replied earnestly. "I wish to remain with Lord Grissom if he will have me. The older boys warned me that he has never taken on a squire. I am hoping that, if I work hard enough, I can change his mind."

Sara huffed a small chuckle. "Lord Grissom can be most stubborn once his mind is set upon something." She regarded him with thoughtful scrutiny, as if measuring his worth. "However, if it is truly your wish to stand and serve him, I shall attempt to find occasion to speak on your behalf." She waved away his sputtered attempt at a thank you. "I am doing this as much for me as for you.

As she turned to take her leave, she directed Sandre to the stables. "If you are going to truly serve as his squire, you will need to see to his horse and armor." She waited until the lad nodded before continuing. "You will then need to bathe and put on clean clothes as you will be required to serve him at the feast this evening." Sandre gave another small bob of his head and hurried to lead Grissom's charger to the stable.

Sara walked slowly towards the entrance of the hall and pondered the significance, if any, of Grissom accepting a squire, especially one so young. He had never done so, preferring to maintain his solitude and see to his own needs. She wondered if he had done so simply as a means to ensure the boy's welfare or if taking a squire meant his days of fighting were finally drawing to a close and that he would not be forced to spend long years away anymore. The latter thought made her heart quicken and she hoped it was true, that Grissom was at last ready to settle down, take a wife and sire a family.

**_The road is my woman  
And she's never done me wrong  
And I'm true to her  
The road is my woman  
And she's here in this song  
And I'm true to her  
But not for long [1]_**

* * *

[1] "Freeway Pleasure" Words and Music by John Stewart. _The Lonesome Picker Rides Again_ (Warner Bros., K46135, 1971) _Gold_ (Wrasse Records, WRASS016, 2000)


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

_**Diva morning and the new moon rising  
Who will take the silver spoon?  
Honey thighs on satin lying,  
In the light of the crazy moon.**_

Sara entered the hall, barely resisting the urge to cover her ears against the thundering roar. The eager cries of the jubilant crowd echoed off of the smooth stone walls in a nearly deafening cacophony of confusion. Casks of ale and wine had already been tapped and drinking horns were being lifted in rousing toasts as one and all were bid welcome to sample the bounty of the royal cellars. Two large fireplaces at either end of the vast hall blazed cheerfully despite the warmth of the day. Sara wrinkled her nose against the woody, smoky fragrance of burning hardwoods mixing with the sharp, tart odor of the alcohol and searched the multitude of merry-makers for a friendly face.

Her father, as was his wont, stood firmly in the middle of fray, waving his arms with great animation as he attempted to silence the excited throng. As soon as the din died out enough for him to be heard, King James climbed atop a sturdy bench; ale sloshing over the rim of the drinking horn clutched in his right hand, he made much of unveiling an intricate tapestry boasting of the Black Monk's latest deeds. The newest carefully woven wall hanging joined the nine others hanging proudly about the hall, all testaments to the fame and glory of his champion knight.

Sara regarded each of the ten beautifully wrought tapestries, mentally reliving each of Grissom's fifteen years of service to her father. The first tapestry revealed Lord Grissom at the tender age of twenty-one at his dubben ceremony, the day he formally received his knighthood and embarked upon his lifetime of service to his king and country. A youthful, clean-shaven shining knight with a mop of curly hair was shown kneeling before a priest in an elaborately decorated chapel. The morning sun seemed to glimmer approvingly through a rose and violet stained glass window as her grandfather, King Radulfus and father, Prince James, together held the hilt of a great sword balanced across Grissom's bare neck.

The subsequent four hangings adjoining Grissom's dubben depicted the rise of the ferocious Black Monk as he valiantly battled to regain the Holy Land during the Third Crusade. A solitary knight in full armor was shown astride a magnificent roan charger, waving farewell to a young, brown-haired lass as he rode away in a billowing cloud of dust to join the battle. Sara smiled softly, her tender gaze tracing the elaborate stitchery as she fondly remembered that day with stunning clarity. She was that little girl standing in the doorway, a tiny smitten child falling in love with her own shining knight for the very first time.

Next, a stern-looking king and a pious priest watched a warrior resplendent in gleaming maille and a black doublet emblazoned with the blood-red cross of Saint John the Baptist, bowing before a bare wooden cross. The third tapestry in the Crusade cycle depicted the full heat of the Battle of Acre; the feared Black Monk riding alongside kings as he led the final charge towards the city's walls. The final hanging of the progression showed an older Lord Grissom arriving home triumphant from the crusades, waving to the cheering crowds lining the path leading to the castle and tossing a single rose to that same little girl, a bit older, but just as captivated by her knight.

Sara dismissed the next quartet of tapestries with just a cursory glance. All were merely battle scenes depicting Grissom quelling either attacks upon the border, revolts from dissatisfied landowners or peasants rising up and taking arms against their lords. Her knight was helmed in all the pictorials and the subject matter did not really hold her interest. She understood that these particular campaigns had been necessary to maintain peace and establish the absolute authority of King James but they were bland and impersonal, just decorations. They said nothing about the man behind the armor, the gentle warrior fighting to defend the honor of both his king and himself.

The final tapestry, however, the one her father had just revealed, was magnificent in both its detail and rendering of Lord Grissom. Knights from many countries, bedecked in a myriad of vibrantly hued doublets, scaled the pristine white walls surrounding the great city of Constantinople. The great city had previously been thought to be impenetrable. However, the superior skill and cunning of the Black Monk had enabled the crusaders to find weaknesses within the city's defenses and win the difficult siege. Sara prayed the cycle was now complete, that no more tapestries of her gallant champion need be commissioned. She truly hoped the time had come for Grissom to lay down his sword and for a new champion to take his place.

_**Oranges soaked in their own juices  
Licking lips of voices sung.  
Magic trips on velvet cruises  
Sainted slaves of our own tongues.**_

Sara approached King James and proudly linked her arm through his as he finished his short speech and crossed the hall to the head table which was a long slab of rich, dark mahogany with intricately carved legs. James was still ruggedly handsome despite the thinning of his longish hair. He cut a distinguished figure in his floor-length burgundy tunic and soft leather slippers. A thick, heavy gold belt encrusted with blood red rubies was secured around his hips and a large signet ring denoting his status and royal lineage sat upon the little finger of his left hand. Intricate gold brocade trimmed his finely woven woolen tunic about the collar, cuffs and hem. He had chosen not to wear his crown, but he seldom did, complaining the ornately jeweled headpiece was entirely too heavy and uncomfortable. James' face was flushed and his cheeks ruddy, whether from the warmth of the hall, the excitement of the day or the ale he had consumed, Sara knew not.

Queen Sofia was already seated at the lavishly set head table, sipping wine from a pewter goblet and watching the crowd with an air of seeming aloofness. Her long flowing blond hair was unbound beneath her cornet. Her deep raspberry gown with silver embroidery enhanced her ivory skin and imbued her with a quiet elegance. Sara was aware of Sofia's apparent detachment from the festivities and wondered, not for the first time, what thoughts were passing behind her stepmother's guarded blue eyes.

Sara gave her stepmother a fleeting peck on the cheek as she made her way behind the table to her own place. She noted the two empty chairs immediately to her father's right and looked about the hall. She knew full well that Grissom was to hold the place of honor as the King's right hand but the stalwart knight was nowhere to be seen.

Sofia watched Sara search the crowd, a knowing smile flirting across her lips. "Are you looking for someone special, dear?"

Sara smoothed her hands along the curved back of her chair and nodded towards the one positioned closest to the King's. "I assume that I shall be sitting next to Lord Grissom but he seems to be missing."

"He will be along soon." Sofia took a sip from her goblet, licking a few stray drops of wine from her full lips. "He wanted to bathe and see to his squire before joining the festivities."

_**Strangers who meet by chance  
Eyes across the room  
Remain the prisoners of the dance  
And the waltz of the crazy moon**_

Grissom descended the stone stairs a short time later dressed simply but richly in a black undershirt and royal blue sleeveless knee length tunic. Matching blue chausses with black cross garters clung tightly to his well-muscled legs and a pair of soft black leather ankle boots completed his wardrobe. His hair was damp, evidence of a bath, brushed straight back over his forehead and tied at the nape of his neck with a small lace of black rawhide. He carried no weapon, not even an ornamental dagger; the lone item hanging from his leather belt was a set of well-worn ebony prayer beads. The only ornamentation on his clothing was a small red eight-point cross stitched high upon the right sleeve of his black linen shirt.

Sara watched him cross the hall to stand alone in a dimly lit corner and rose to join him. As she drew nearer, she detected a hint of sandalwood clinging to him and closed her eyes for just a moment to allow the clean, masculine aroma fill her senses.

"Lord Grissom," she murmured with a polite nod of her head. She smiled shyly and hesitantly ran her hand down his left arm, wrapping her long elegant fingers around his larger, calloused hand. "You look well."

"You look...lovely," he stammered, his cheeks flushing warmly in the glow from the huge fireplace just to his left. "You are all grown up now."

Sara was pleased he noticed. She had taken great pains in preparing for this day. More than anything, she wanted him to see her, not as the budding teenager he left behind or the small girl waving from the tapestries but as a maiden in the full-bloom of womanhood. His compliment gave her courage and she boldly reached a single finger to flit lightly upon the deep red scar marring his right cheek.

"This is new. How came you by this mark?"

Grissom's eyes fluttered shut in response to her fleeting touch. "A mere squabble, Milady," he began after clearing his throat. "A coward attacked me while I slept, 'tis all."

"Is it settled?" she asked, her thumb stroking lightly over the hand she still held.

"For now," he replied lightly.

She raised an eyebrow in silent question, hoping he would explain further but he merely shrugged.

_**Inner thighs and magic angels  
Looking out on Harvard Square  
Penny wise the pale white strangers  
Were the only faces there.**_

The Lady Heather of Whippoorwill, the King's chosen companion, moved forward from the shadows behind the head table where she had been maintaining a discreet distance from James and placed a gentle hand upon the King's shoulder to get his attention. He turned to her, questioning, and she made a subtle motion with her hand in the direction of Grissom and Sara. James watched the interaction between the two, and his eyes widening with surprise.

Both James and Heather looked on with keen interest as Grissom clumsily drew Sara's right hand to him and gently placed a small silken pouch into her open palm. They leaned closer, trying to hear the oblivious couple over the din of the crowd.

Sara grinned widely, unable to hide her enthusiasm and pleasure. "You brought me a present?"

"It is something I had made for you while in Venice. I thought…you seemed..." Grissom's words stumbled off his tongue as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and stared at the floor. "'Tis nothing much and you probably will not even like it. I have…never purchased a gift for anyone before, " he finished in a rush, blushing profusely, his ears flaming a delightful shade of beet red as his hands clenched and unclenched in undisguised nervousness.

Heather chuckled. "He can face down an entire enemy force numbering twice that of his own and remain as cool as the ice on a winter pond," she said, undisguised mirth dancing in her eyes. "When presenting a small trinket to a beautiful maiden, however, our stalwart knight suddenly becomes as fidgety as a wet behind the ears lad about to bed his first woman."

The King raised a sardonic eyebrow at her comment. "I am going to have to speak with him about this, for truly I am quite envious." Heather looked at him, puzzled, and James raised his hands in supplication as he sought to plead his cause. "In all his years of traveling to and fro, he has never brought ME a present. Oh, sure, he has brought me renown, treasure, land and gold aplenty from his many victories but never, _ever_ has he brought me something so simple as a gift!" He punctuated his statement by huffing quietly and folding his arms over his chest.

Heather laughed softly at his feigned indignation and turned her gaze once more to the awkward couple tucked safely in the darkened corner of the hall. "Perhaps, my love," she replied, lightly caressing his cheek, "were you fairer of face and more open with your admiration, he might yearn to bestow upon you some small token to speak of his affection as well." The King chuckled and playfully waved her away with am imperious flick of his wrist as he, too, craned his neck to observe the interaction between his daughter and the knight champion.

The King and his companion watched with growing curiosity as Sara's nimble fingers gracefully untied the silken ribbons to loose the opening of the deep violet pouch. She reached inside and carefully withdrew a small, eight-point gold cross dangling from a delicate chain. Sara turned the pendant over and over in her hand, lost in thought, holding it up to watch the firelight dance upon the smooth burnished surface before turning her questioning gaze to him.

_**Lay me down in blond warm shadows  
Speak to me of golden pond  
Torture me slow blue tangos  
Even when the thrill is gone.**_

Grissom blanched and inwardly berated himself for committing such a terrible blunder. Maidens liked...frilly things like perfumes and sachets, not religious pendants. He immediately hammered his features into an expressionless mask to hide the flare of pain. It had taken a great deal of courage for him to present her with such a personal and significant piece of jewelry and he was dismayed by her lack of response.

Closing his eyes to gather his thoughts and get his emotions under control, Grissom watched the necklace sway from her fingers. "I beg your forgiveness, Milady," he murmured. "I did not mean to displease you with my gift."

Sara's brow furrowed in confusion as she regarded the nervous man standing before her and pondered the magnitude of such a gift, the Cross of St. John the Baptist and the emblem of the Knights Hospitaller. Grissom was a deeply religious man and had served with the Knights Hospitallers for several years during the Third Crusade. For him to willingly present her with such a notable symbol of both himself and his life carried a much deeper implication than just bestowing a simple gift upon a comely maiden.

"No, Gris," she said, unconsciously calling him by the nickname she bestowed upon him when she was a toddler just learning to speak. "You misunderstood. I am not displeased in the least and think this necklace is one of the loveliest I have ever seen." She paused, carefully considering her words before continuing, "I just...I do not know quite how to react as no one has ever given me anything quite like this before. I am given all kinds of trinkets from the pompous would-be suitors Father and Sofia continually parade before me, but I have never been presented with something this exquisite and meaningful."

Sara smirked at him and rolled her eyes before leaning closer to touch his hand and mutter confidentially, "I am usually gifted with such token items as combs and hair ribbons and scented soaps. I have never received something so...personal and of such deep import to the giver. I shall treasure it, truly."

_**Connection made  
The feel of shoulders  
The smell of honey, salt and tears.  
Blinded by a flash of lightning,  
A moment or a million years.**_

Sara blew out a soft breath, grateful that he was starting to relax. She did not want him to think she did not appreciate the gift because nothing could be further from the truth. She knew Grissom was not a demonstrative man and that it had taken a lot for him to even give it to her. She was more touched than he could possibly know.

Sara smiled shyly and again reached up to stroke his arm. "You overwhelmed me, that is all. I know how much this pendant and the import of this particular design mean to you since you bear an identical emblem on the shoulder of your shirt." She slid her hand up his arm to trace the embroidered cross on his shirt, noting that his muscles trembled slightly beneath her fingers. "It is also emblazoned upon your shield and a few of your doublets."

Grissom clumsily fished beneath the neck of his tunic and withdrew his own chain. He swallowed heavily, trying to still his body's trembling reaction to her touch, before whispering. "Yours is a smaller, more feminine version of my own."

Her heart nearly burst with gladness, knowing he had purposefully chosen a gift for her that matched something he owned and treasured. "Will you put it on me?" His bearded cheek grazed her fragrant hair as he took the delicate chain from her hand and drape it gently over her head. Grissom delighted in the soft scent of lavender clinging to her skin, and he lingered just a moment to appreciate her nearness.

Sara kissed his cheek right along the line of his beard. Her father was so very wrong. Grissom was not prickly or unsavory at all. The short fur covering his cheeks and jaw was soft and ticklish. She inhaled deeply, allowing the warm, clean smell to fill her head as she licked her lips, pleased and excited by his musky, masculine flavor.

_**Strangers who meet by chance  
Eyes across the room  
Remain the prisoners of the dance  
And the waltz of the crazy moon**_

From across the hall James and Heather watched the interaction between the two with growing fascination.

"'Twould seem the conquering hero has managed to capture your daughter's attention as well."

"So it does," James replied thoughtfully.

"And?"

"I don't know, Heather. I have never really considered Grissom a suitable mate for anyone, let alone my daughter."

"Why not?"

The King knit his brow in thought. "Gil is not the most open person in the world. He keeps everything inside and rarely shares himself with anyone." He toyed with the stem of his heavy pewter goblet. "He is also away overmuch, tending to my business and his own. I cannot see he would have much time to devote to marriage and children."

"You said the choice was hers, Jim," she gently reminded him. "If she chooses Gil, will you honor that?"

King James shook his head, confusion and concern warring over his features. "I don't know, Heather. I just don't know."

_**Strangers who meet by chance  
Eyes across the room  
Remain the prisoners of the dance  
And the waltz of the crazy moon**__** 1**_

1 "Waltz of the Crazy Moon". Words and Music by John Stewart. _Buster_ (Neon Dreams, 2000) _Johnny Moonlight_ (Neon Dreams, 2000)


	4. Chapter Three

_**Chapter Three**_

_**Where have all the dreamers gone?**_

_**Out there sleeping in the sun**_

_**Where have all the dreamers gone?**_

_**When the battle's just begun**_

Grissom presented his arm to Sara and they made their way to their seats. Sandre bustled in from the kitchen with a wooden tray heavily laden with food and drinks. The lad was freshly scrubbed and dressed in the same royal blue tunic and black undershirt as Grissom; Sandre was not as ornately clothed as some of the other squires, but judging from his beaming smile, Sara assumed he was more than pleased with his attire. She beckoned him to her with a crook of her finger.

"You are very handsome in your finery, Sandre," she said with a gentle smile as the young man placed the large serving tray upon the table.

"Thank you, Princess," he blushed, puffing out his chest with pride while running a hand down the front of his soft woolen tunic. "Lord Grissom had these clothes made especially for me."

Sara cocked a questioning eyebrow at Grissom and watched with great amusement as he squirmed slightly in his seat. Quickly he averted his gaze and began examining his fork as if it was the first such utensil he had ever seen.

Sandre leaned closer to Sara, not wanting Grissom to hear, and spoke softly into her ear. "I am dressed like him and thus marked as his squire. It gives me cause to hope that perhaps he will not be sending me to my uncle's to slop hogs after all." He grinned widely, his eyes flashing with exuberance and mischief. "Besides, the others, while their tunics may be brighter, are extremely jealous because I am the very first to ever be marked by Lord Grissom's symbol." Sandre bowed formally to both the Princess and the Knight and scurried back to the kitchen, leaving the two to enjoy their meal.

According to custom, Grissom and Sara shared a trencher overflowing with succulent roasted meats, vegetables, and breads. Sara watched silently as Grissom frowned and wrinkled his nose at the pork and beef, casually moving all the meat towards her side of the trencher. He dined instead on a bowl of simple vegetable pottage, cup of cold milk and mug of hot tea that Sandre stealthily placed before him. Sara cast a curious glance at Grissom's humble meal, noting that he drank neither wine nor ale. Shrugging off his behavior as some sort of religious rite, Sara popped a morsel of roasted pork into her mouth, relishing the bite of rosemary and garlic seasoning, and made no mention of his reaction to the meat.

_**They shall rise a thousand times**_

_**Echoing the words**_

_**Come my friends, it's not too late**_

_**To seek a newer world**_

Far across the hall Lord Tarek, Fourth Earl of Grissombrae and elder brother of the Black Monk, watched Lord Grissom and Princess Sara dine, his thin, black brows pulled together atop his long pointed nose in a fierce scowl. Tarek's hatred and envy of the champion knight was common knowledge and he made no attempt to hide his feelings from those seated at the long wooden table with him. He was infuriated by the fact that his younger brother occupied such an obvious place of honor at the right hand of the king and by the attention bestowed upon him by the fair princess.

"Look at him," Tarek sneered with disgust, gesturing towards his brother. "He was pulled from Saint Benet Monastery years ago and yet still wears clothing resembling an abit." He punctuated his words with a derisive snort. "One would think King James, Queen Sofia or even Lady Heather would pull him aside and take a moment to educate him on the proper dress required when attending official royal functions and matters of court."

Tarek's own bright scarlet tunic was elaborate, on par with that of King James', as were his gold chausses and scarlet cross garters shot through with gold thread. On his feet were black leather shoes with gaudy gold buckles. The Grissom family coat of arms was elaborately stitched upon the left breast of his tunic in gold, silver, green and black thread. A thick black leather belt and jeweled dagger hilted in a gold-plated sheath completed Tarek's showy ensemble.

Lady Catherine, widow of Lord Edward of Willows and long-time acquaintance of the Grissom family, flipped her strawberry blond hair in annoyance. "I cannot speak for everyone, Tarek," she purred, "but let me assure you, from a completely feminine point of view, that Gil looks very fine indeed."

The other ladies at the table nodded their agreement with great enthusiasm. Most, if not all of them, had all been eyeing the younger Grissom since he first appeared in the hall.

"Some men are secure enough that they do not feel the need to display their rank and stature upon every article of clothing they own." Catherine cradled her chin in one hand and tapped the long tapered fingernails of the other on the table as she regarded the elder Grissom brother with open curiosity. "Tell me, Tarek, are your braies thusly embroidered as well?"

Tarek mouth gaped, his face flushing a deep scarlet that rivaled the hue of his tunic. Catherine's eyes widened and she snorted a most unladylike laugh. "You cannot be serious? You have had your drawers emblazoned with your family crest?" She turned to address Tarek's wife, disbelief still evident in her tone. "Kennera, is it true? Does he really make you spend long hours practicing needlepoint upon his underclothing?"

Kennera bowed her head and refused to speak. Catherine paid her no heed as she dissolved into a fit of helpless giggles. "Well," she began, struggling to control her mirth and failing miserably, "I suppose you have to have _something_ down there worth boasting about."

Others at the table joined her in laughing at Tarek's expense. His fingers caressed the hilt of his dagger and his eyes filled with a murderous rage. Catherine calmly returned his stare, silently daring him to try something. Tarek reluctantly removed his hand from his dagger, balling his hand into a fist and letting it drop harmlessly to his side. Catherine gave him a smug look. Tarek had always been long on words and short on action; branded by many as a coward for he had never taken to the field for battle.

Catherine shot him a smug look and her tone sharpened as she sought to shame him further. "Gil has no need to preen like a strutting peacock in search of a hen. Look around, Tarek. Everyone, even those he faces across the field of battle, looks upon him with awe and respect for his deeds and accomplishments." There was a murmur of agreement from the table. "He has no need to boast or brag for his legend is known to all."

"In short, Tarek," she continued in a cold voice, her eyes and expression hardening, "your brother is a man, something you will never be since you have spent your entire lifetime hiding behind your father's purse and peeking around your mother's gown."

Tarek's pale green eyes glinted with barely suppressed rage. He stormed from the table and retreated to a far corner of the hall to gather his wits and seek refuge from Lady Catherine's biting words and mocking gaze.

_**Where did all the poets go?**_

_**Out there writing on the walls**_

_**How do all the poets know?**_

_**When the empire will fall**_

_**They will rise a thousand times**_

_**Echoing the words**_

_**Come my friends, it's not too late**_

_**To seek a newer world**_

Later, after all assembled had eaten their fill, Tarek approached his younger brother when he stood apart from the crowd regarding the latest tapestry King James had revealed. Grissom gazed soberly at the heavy panel depicting the sacking of Constantinople, a myriad of emotions playing behind his stoic expression. He had taken no part in the looting and indiscriminate raping and killing that had occurred when the great city had finally fallen and was dismayed that James had made that the focal point of this pictorial as he had been appalled and shamed by the behavior of the other knights. Granted, the scene depicted was innocuous as it merely showed the knights breeching the walls of that magnificent city, but Grissom remembered in horrific detail all that happened after. It was, in his eyes, a terrible waste, made all the worse because it had all been enacted in the name of God.

"Gil."

Grissom acknowledged his older brother with a polite nod, but the bulk of his concentration was still claimed by the horrible memories conjured by the tapestry.

"Welcome home, brother," Tarek began with a sneer, "I see you returned from you adventures no worse for the wear." His voice was soft but dripped with contempt he made no effort to disguise. "And I see," he continued, gesturing to the many tapestries hanging on the wall, "that King James has added yet another gaudy wall hanging to boast of your greatly exaggerated deeds. Why are you are staring at it so intently? Can your enormous ego not be sufficiently fed without these constant reminders?"

"I ask not for the tapestries, or the reminders," Grissom sighed, turning a carefully blank face to Tarek. "In truth, I would prefer they not exist."

He reluctantly moved away to from the wall to give Tarek his full attention. "Since you were gracious enough to inquire," Grissom began with a slight mocking bow, "I can safely answer that no great harm was done upon me and I but suffered only a minor scratch here and there from the hands of less able warriors. They are nothing you need worry after nor find pleasure in. I assure you I am quite healthy despite the intentions and best efforts of others."

Tarek faltered a bit, his sneer flagging as Gil's words sank in and a trickle of fear awoke in the pit of his stomach. "Oh really?" he asked, pushing on gamely. "That's all the harm that befell you? Others perished upon the plain and yet you have but a few minor 'scratches' to boast of?" Tarek's falsely incredulous tone slithered into a low hiss. "It would be so easy to assume and have others believe you were but a coward and hid behind the lines while ordering those good knights under your command into the fray to save your own worthless skin."

"My efforts upon the field are well accounted for, Tarek," Grissom returned smoothly, refusing to rise to the bait his older brother was dangling. "You needn't fear that I besmirched your good name. Indeed, while I might have right and just cause to do otherwise, I have upheld the family honor." He paused and arched a knowing eyebrow at Tarek. "Can you say the same, fair brother? I did not see you clamoring to join us when we rode off to war. To hear those afore mentioned stalwart knights tell the tale, you remained at your keep feigning illness instead of answering the call to arms."

Grissom allowed himself a satisfied smirk as Tarek's face reddened and his hands tightly clenched his tunic near his thighs. The older man's mouth opened and closed a few times as he sought to control his temper and think of a suitable rejoinder. His anger made him bold, overriding common sense and caution. The need to tamp his younger brother firmly in his place took precedence over discretion.

"And what of Sir Geoffrey? To what end came that titled and noble knight? I see he did not return and have no he doubt met with a glorious end in battle befitting a man of his great honor and valor."

"Sir Geoffrey received that which was due him," Grissom replied in a flat, emotionless voice.

The color ran from Tarek's face. He knew he had blundered badly and that his haste to discover Geoffrey's fate had confirmed what Gil already suspected. He had no way of knowing if Gil said anything to King James or not, no way to know if he was going to be held accountable for his crimes. He tried the only tactic he knew and hoped the thinly veiled threat would find its mark.

"Take care, little brother. You might not fare so well in your next battle. You never know when your good fortune might take a sudden turn and you find yourself on the receiving end of a bastard sword."

Grissom stared at his brother, locking eyes with him in a stare so deadly that Tarek's blood ran cold and a shiver ran down his spine. He silently dared his older brother to continue, to finally declare to his face that he wished him dead. He knew Tarek's pride and hatred would not allow him to back down and he nearly smiled when the elder continued in a low growl.

"I can only dream that the next tapestry King James commissions depicting your deeds will feature your lifeless body. Indeed, when that happy day at long last comes to pass," he intoned darkly, stroking his dagger almost lovingly, "I may have one made as well so that I can daily celebrate your removal from this earth."

Instead of prolonging the encounter and lowering himself to Tarek's level, Grissom boldly turned his back on his brother, giving the other every opportunity to sink the blade between his shoulders. When he had stood long enough to make a blatant point of Tarek's cowardice and unwillingness to soil his own hands, he fingered the worn ebony beads hanging from his belt and walked slowly away, praying quietly for patience and humility with every step.

_Pone, Domine, custodiam ori meo,_

_et ostium circumstantiae labiis meis._

_Non declines cor meum in verba malitiae,_

_ad excusandas excusationes in peccatis;_

_cum homnibus operantibus iniquitatem,_

_et non communicabo cum electis eorum._

_Corripiet me Justus in misercordia, et increpabit me:_

_oleum autem peccatoris non impinguet caput meum._

_Quoniam adhue et oratio mea in beneplacitic eorum:_

_absorpti sunt jucti petrae judices eorum._

_Audient verba mea, quoniam potverunt._

_Sicut crassitudo terrae erupta est super terram,_

_dissipata sunt ossa nostra secus infernum._

_Quia as te, Domine, Domine, oculi mei;_

_in te sepravi, non auferas animam meam._

_Custodi me a laqueo quem statuerunt mihi,_

_et a scnadalis operantium iniquitatem._

_Cadent in retiaculo ejus peccatores:_

_singulariter sum ego, donec transeam._ 1

Sara wandered about the milling crowd, keeping a close eye trained upon her knight as he stood gazing at the newly unveiled tapestry. She observed the exchange between the two Grissom men with curiosity and a little trepidation. It was no secret that Tarek loathed his younger brother but no one, even her father who had been close friends with Gil for many years, seemed to know why the older man's hatred ran so deep. Sara knew from viewing the exchange, however, that Gil had been uncomfortable with the entire confrontation. Only one who had observed him as closely as she would have noticed his back stiffening just a bit or his jaw being tightly clenched. She sighed with relief when Gil finally presented his back to his brother and walked away.

_**Where did all the heroes go?**_

_**They were always here before**_

_**Where did all the heroes go?**_

_**They're standing just outside the door**_

Grissom headed back to the table. The bitter exchange with Tarek had left a foul taste in his mouth and awakened an ache deep within his soul that never fully went away. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, he was troubled. Yet somehow he knew that Sara's soft presence would provide a balm to soothe the awful soreness which had persisted for more than thirty years.

A soft touch upon his elbow halted his trek across the room. Queen Sofia flashed him a demure smile and tipped her head in greeting.

"Well met, Good Knight. I see that, as ever, you have managed to capture the roving eye of many a woman, married or no."

He allowed a small smile to lift a corner of his mouth. "Queen Sofia. How fare you these days?"

"I am as well as can be expected, Gil. You know well my plight and nothing much has changed."

Grissom nodded his head gravely to cede the point. "Have your burdens eased much?"

"Oh, there are no demands put upon me, as you well know. I am free to do as I wish; to even take another to my bedchamber should I so desire." Sofia shook her head ruefully in response to Grissom's surprised expression. "No, I fear I have become nothing more than yon old bench sitting beside the hearth, a misused, dusty and forgotten piece of furniture."

"I am sorry, Sofia," he muttered. His eyes closed and his face tightened as they shared a moment of mutual sorrow.

"I know you are, Gil. I appreciate your sympathy. Knowing that someone understands helps ease the unhappiness. But this was not of your doing any more than it was of mine so do not let this be added to the burdens you have already been forced to carry for so many years," she cautioned, a stern frown crossing her brow.

"I will continue to make the best of what has been done to me." She caught a glimpse of a mauve-colored gown in the corner of her eye and continued in a lighter tone. "It would seem, however, that fortune is about to favor you with a breath of happiness."

"Sara," she said, trying not to laugh as Grissom's face clouded in sudden confusion. "She will be good for you; perhaps break through that melancholy which follows you about like a storm cloud. I hope you find some measure of comfort and happiness, Gil, I truly do. You deserve it. You have earned it. I pray you have the strength of will to finally break free of those chains which hold you fast."

"And you?"

"I have no such hope. I am destined to remain nothing more that a showpiece. Heather runs the keep, not me. I bear her no ill, though. She is as much a pawn as are we. In truth, Heather has been a good friend through out the years, just as Sara has been a good daughter. Both have provided me with much comfort."

Sofia chuckled lightly as she noticed Sara scanning the crowd looking for Grissom. "You must go. Your lady would seek you out."

"But…"

"Go, Grissom. Find your happiness while there is yet time. Cast off your maille and allow someone to love you." Sofia smiled as if she knew a delicious secret. "I will be fine."

_**They shall rise a thousand times**_

_**Echoing the words**_

_**Come my friends, it's not too late**_

_**To seek a newer world**_

_**Come my friends, it's not to late**_

_**To seek a newer world**_

_**To seek a newer world**__** 2**_

1** Psalm 140: 3-10**. **3** Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth: and a door round about my lips. **4 **Incline not my heart to evil words; to make excuses in sins. With men that work iniquity: and I will not communicate with the choicest of them. **5** The just man shall correct me in mercy, and shall reprove me: but let not the oil of the sinner fatten my head. For my prayer shall still be against the things with which they are well pleased: **6** Their judges falling upon the rock have been swallowed up. They shall hear my words, for they have prevailed: **7** As when the thickness of the earth is broken up upon the ground: Our bones are scattered by the side of hell. **8** But to thee, O Lord, Lord, are my eyes: in thee have I put my trust, take not away my soul. **9** Keep me from the snare, which they have laid for me, and from the stumbling blocks of them that work iniquity. **10** The wicked shall fall in his net: I am alone until I pass.

2 "Seek a Newer World." Words and Music by John Stewart. _Teresa and the Lost Songs_ (cass - Crow, 1, 1992; CD - Homecoming, HCCD00870, 1998)


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**So many years I have pulled on the line**

**Fished in the river**

**Coming up dry**

**Dry river runs like a scar**

**On your soul**

**Have you ever been in Texas**

**With your lungs full of holes?**

King James rose from his chair and strode to the middle of the hall to stand behind a large wooden dais that had been wrestled in by several burly stable hands while the crowd enjoyed their meal. He watched the squires and servants scurry about clearing the plates and scraps from the table and placed in their stead fresh casks of ale and wine. When the room was quiet and the servants had retreated to the kitchen, James cleared his throat and began to speak of the Great Crusade. His voice was strong and filled with obvious pride as he extolled Grissom's virtues as both a warrior and a leader of men.

Sara watched Grissom carefully throughout the recitation and noticed that he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the praise her father was bestowing upon him. She placed a gentle a hand on his thigh beneath the table and nearly laughed aloud when her gesture caused him to squirm even more.

"Why are you so embarrassed?" she whispered. "Most men would be puffing out their chests proudly in the face of such public acclaim from their King."

"I am not like the others," he said softly, refusing to meet her eyes as a thick finger traced the wood grain on the long banquet table. Sara removed her hand from his thigh and placed it over his to still the restless movement while he struggled to explain himself. Grissom finally looked up her and sighed, a defeated tone in his voice. "I was simply doing my duty."

Sara regarded him with a puzzled look but chose to question him no further. She simply soothed a thumb over the back of his hand, smiling softly to herself when he did not pull away from the simple caress and even seemed to relax just a little, almost as if her touch was comforting him in some way. She continued the tender motion upon his skin as both returned their attention to the ceremony and listened as James ran through the roll of returning victorious knights. The King added several words of acclaim for each of the brave warriors, pausing between names to allow every knight receive his full measure of applause and recognition.

Grissom was called to stand beside his King as James somberly read a list of those who fell in battle or were lost to the hardship of the journey. As he read each name, a family member was called forward to receive a small personal item brought back from the battlefield by Grissom.

James waited until the last person had returned to their seats and Grissom had moved to stand beside one of the large fireplaces at either end of the hall before continuing. "There is one I have yet to mention, one who remains conspicuous if only by his absence. This bygone knight was a member of my household, a man whom I trusted and took into my confidence." He paused, his gaze lingering over the assembled gentry, waiting for the reaction his knew his next words would bring. "Sir Geoffrey, late of Grissombrae, is dead," he announced, his tone flat and void of emotion. "He shall henceforth be neither honored nor remembered within this hall."

A great gasp filled the hall and James once again raised his hands to silence the crowd. "Geoffrey McKeen was a coward and a traitor. He, along with a small band of raiders, repeatedly sneaked from the knights' encampment and, under the cover of darkness with their faces hidden beneath woolen cowls, preyed upon innocent travelers making pilgrimages to the Holy Land. They stole from these poor families, raped the women and murdered all who might stand in witness to their deeds. Very few lived to tell the tales of these attacks but of those few, at least one was able to absolutely identify and name Geoffrey as the leader of the villainous pack."

"Geoffrey did not act alone in these raids," James said, his voice rising in volume and intensity as he cast a steely glance around the hall, "but I have yet to fully ascertain the identities of the others. Be warned. If any of those contemptuous knights be within this hall, I will find out and will mete out punishment accordingly. I can assure you that I shall be swift and harsh in doling out my justice."

The King paused momentarily to see if anyone was reacting to his threat. He watched Tarek covertly out of the corner of his eyes as he named Geoffrey's final act of treachery. "If attacking and murdering innocent travelers weren't bad enough," James continued, disgust dripping from his words, "Geoffrey did maliciously, and without just cause or provocation, turn on a brother knight and attack him as he slept."

Sara gasped, her eyes seeking Grissom as her father's voice thundered ominously throughout the hall. A slow, barely perceptible nod of confirmation answered her unspoken question and a furious anger welled within her.

**Run like coyote with a trap on your paw**

**All of my friends seem**

**To live outside the law**

**Work all your life**

**You've got nothing to show**

**Just some seeds in your pocket**

**That some fool said would grow**

Tarek stiffened under the weight of the King's words, barely resisting the urge to look about the hall. He had no way of knowing how much James actually knew. Gil had given nothing away when they spoke earlier, other than to say Geoffrey had received his due. Tarek could not begin to guess how much of the story, beyond Geoffrey's attack, Gil had shared with James or anyone else. James' face and demeanor revealed nothing, leaving Tarek to wonder what he was thinking.

As casually as he could, Tarek chanced a furtive look over his shoulder and was relieved to find no Knights quietly assembled behind his chair ready to clap him into irons. Still, the fact that James was not taking any overt action against him did little to reassure him the King believed Geoffrey acted alone. For all Tarek knew, his younger brother had confided in King James, sharing his suspicions that Geoffrey had been paid handsomely for acting as the Hashshashin. He could only hope that Gil had managed to kill Geoffrey quickly before the man had been able to recount his own part in the plot, naming Tarek as the driving force behind the raids.

Tarek stirred from his racing thoughts as James continued speaking, although the words he spoke did little to quiet Tarek's growing apprehension. Geoffrey's family was being dealt with generously. The King was allowing his widow and children to retain their holdings and the eldest son, Godfrey, to continue his training as a squire to one of James' vassals. James believed Geoffrey had acted without their knowledge and that his actions should not taint his family. Tarek heartily agreed for he knew Geoffrey was a coward at heart. The sniveling bastard would have never perpetuated such a crime unless he was to be rewarded for such an act.

As King James strode back to his seat, Tarek's eyes darted wildly about the great Hall. His heart was racing as he listened to those around him speculate on who might be behind Geoffrey's crimes, for Geoffrey was not noted for his brains and cunning. He was a mere thug who acted on the orders of others. His eyes finally landed on the form of his younger brother who was leaning against the mantle of the fireplace. Gil's bulky arms were folded casually across his chest as he calmly watched Tarek squirm.

Swallowing convulsively to fight the sudden nausea that swept over him, Tarek felt his palms grow clammy and his smock dampen beneath his arms as his anxiety increased. Struggling to hold onto his composure beneath the weight of his younger brother's inscrutable stare, Tarek shivered at the trickle of cold sweat along his spine.

**And you ride stone blind**

**And I ride stone blind**

"Will you walk with me, Lord Grissom?"

Grissom slowly, reluctantly dragged his attention from Tarek, closing his eyes and sighing a deep cleansing breath. He gave Sara a brief wordless nod of assent and gallantly offered his arm to escort her from the hall. Sara snugged her finely boned hand securely into the crook of his elbow and regarded him thoughtfully before speaking.

"You do not seem to be enjoying yourself," she began in a soft tone. "I thought a breath of fresh air might lighten your mood and help revive your spirits."

Her voice was so soft and the hall so loud, buzzing with gossip and random speculation in response to James' revelations about Sir Geoffrey's fate, that Grissom had to lean down until their cheeks were brushing in order to hear her hushed comment. They painted an intimate picture, indeed appeared to be very much a couple, as they slowly made their way toward the door.

"Was it Tarek's presence or the recounting of Geoffrey's sins that caused you such despair?" she queried, feeling the slicing gaze of the older brother in the center of her back like the heavy thrust of a razor-sharp blade.

"Neither, Milady," Grissom replied quietly, his lips brushing against her ear, the faint scrape of his whiskers sending a tingle down her spine as he spoke. "I merely find events such as these...tiresome."

**And I ride stone blind**

**Waiting for the sun to shine**

Tarek flushed with anger and envy as the two made their way to the door of the hall. He was saddled with a great nagging cow of a wife while his worthless younger brother strutted about with a beautiful young princess on his arm. The mere thought of thrusting lustily between her sweet maiden thighs was enough to stir his manhood. Sara's beauty was enough to set any man aflame and he could not stand the thought that his vastly inferior younger brother had somehow managed to capture her attention. She scarcely acknowledged his presence and yet she purposefully sought Gil out. He, Tarek, was the better Grissom, the only true Grissom, and on the morrow the whole kingdom would realize once and for all that Gil was nothing more than a worthless, pathetic pretender. Yes, before the sun set tomorrow evening, his brother would be dead and the Princess would be his.

**The Bible said that the kingdom's come**

**I couldn't see it in the noon day sun**

**I've been looking for thirty-four years**

**I do believe that the kingdom's here**

"I fear this walk of ours may cause more trouble between you and your brother." Sara spoke casually as they walked through the bailey gates and left the castle grounds, all pretense of formality dropped once they were out of sight of the assembled peerage. She lifted a lovely shoulder in response to Grissom's puzzled expression, "It is no great secret that Tarek has been trying, without success I might add, to convince Father to promise my hand to his eldest son."

Grissom snorted, his tone dry. "Yes, well, spurned suitors aside, there is nothing you could do to cause Tarek to revile me more than he already does."

"Why does he hate you so?"

"Only Tarek knows the answer to that question," Grissom replied with a shrug, his voice light as if Tarek's hatred was of no consequence.

The couple walked in companionable silence before resting on a wrought iron bench beneath a tree growing along the edge of the family cemetery. Sara placed a gentle hand over one of his where it rested on his thigh.

"Why are you so quiet this evening?" she asked, tightening her grip slightly as Grissom tried to move his hand from beneath hers. "This should be a night of triumph and glory for you and yet you remain as withdrawn as ever."

He quirked an eyebrow in response, silently asking her to explain.

"I have been watching the other knights. They are all strutting about clamoring for attention, trying to be noticed. You purposefully chose to stand well apart from the crowd and barely made an effort to join in. What is it that displeases you so?"

"I am not displeased," he said softly, his eyes trained on the ground between his feet.

"You do not wish to recount the tales of your valor and add to your already legendary fame?"

Grissom barked a harsh laugh and shook his head. "There is nothing festive or glorious about war, Sara." He raised his eyes to regard her solemnly, his gaze haunted and troubled. "The tales I would tell of the sights I have seen and deeds I have done are best left unspoken."

"To hear the other knights who fought alongside you tell it, your campaign was nothing but one glorious victory after another."

"They are young and full of life, each hoping to establish a lofty reputation and earn favor with your father." Grissom stared off into the distance. "I was like that once," he mumbled wistfully, causing Sara to wonder if he was speaking to her or simply thinking aloud. He carefully turned his hand to grasp her smaller one and weave their fingers together in a tight knot. "In mari via tua, et semitæ tuæ in aquis multis, et vestigia tua non cognoscentur.*"

Grissom rubbed a worn thumb absently over her knuckles, a sad smile on his face as he finally raised his eyes to hers. "Now I see nothing but the waste. I am weary, Sara, and increasingly sickened by the unending slaughter I am forced to perpetuate in the name of God and King."

She looked at him curiously, trying to understand everything he was saying and, even more, that which he was not.

"Tell me."

Grissom opened his mouth to reply when their quiet moment was interrupted by a breathless Sandre. Grissom huffed an exasperated breath and shook his head with wry amusement. Sara's hand tightened slightly upon his in an unspoken apology as her head dropped and she gave a humorless chuckle.

"My apologies, Milady, Milord," Sandre gasped, winded from his efforts to find the couple. "King James bid me find Princess Sara as there are those present to whom he would introduce her."

Sara rolled her eyes, her mild disgust readily apparent. "More simpering fops and would-be suitors, no doubt. How weary I grow of this endless procession." She tugged on Grissom's hand and they both stood. She shot him a playful grin. "Sir Knight, would you be kind enough to escort me back inside so I can be done with this loathsome task?"

Grissom bowed slightly with a sardonic smirk and presented her his arm. He reluctantly escorted the Princess back to her father and watched helplessly while a group of young knights huddled about her like moths drawn to a flame. Grissom's face tightened and he turned and left the hall without a second glance, a muscle in his jaw ticking. His hasty exit was noticed by no one but Heather.

**And I ride stone blind**

**And I ride stone blind**

**And I ride stone blind**

Later, when the festivities had dwindled down and the last knight departed, Sara looked about to make sure her father was still holding court in the Hall before slipping up the stairs. She paused momentarily before the door she knew led to Grissom's chamber and listened to him move about inside. His movements sounded restless as if he were pacing. Sara was tempted to knock to see if he would be interested in resuming their interrupted conversation but thought better of her actions and moved further down the hall.

Sara stood between two closed doors and chewed her lip, torn as to which to choose. One of the portals led to Sofia's chamber, the other to Heather's. Sofia had been so distant and wrapped up in her own thoughts during the feast that Sara chose not to bother her. She opted for Heather instead; knocking quietly on the door before sliding quickly inside.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Heather, but I wondered if I might talk to you for a moment."

"Of course Sara," the older woman replied, motioning Sara to a chair before the fire as she moved to take a chair facing the Princess. Sara watched Heather settle in her chair and begin brushing out her hair. She fidgeted under the weight of Heather's curious gaze, not knowing how to start. She finally just blurted, "I want to talk to you about Grissom," and ducked her head to hide the blush she could feel warming her cheeks.

A knowing grin lit Heather's face and she struggled to hide her amusement, trying not to laugh outright at Sara's discomfort. "What do you want to know?"

"You have known him a long time," Sara said, finally looking up. "Is there anyone he is courting or wishes to take to wife?"

"No, dear. He has not made mention of anyone and he has not asked your father's leave to marry. Gil is, as ever, very much alone in this world. Why do you ask?"

Sara's brow knitted in consternation. "Several times tonight I made bold and touched him, just gentle touches on his arm or on his hand...I might have touched him once on his knee when we were outside talking. Every time I laid my hand upon him, he flinched. It was nothing much but he seemed... well, surprised is not quite the word and he did not appear annoyed." She clasped her hands tightly in her lap as she tried to explain further.

"You want to know if your attention to him is unwelcome and unwanted."

"Yes, that it is."

Heather closes her eyes, gathering her thoughts. "Gil has not known much tenderness in his life and is always surprised when anyone shows him some measure of affection. He is not used to having a lovely young lady seek him out and bestow her attention upon him."

"He does not realize how handsome he is?"

Heather's shoulders shook as she chuckled. "He would probably just stare at you blankly if you told him something like that and then turn to look over his shoulder to see who you were really talking about. Such superficial matters are unimportant to him."

"Bah," Sara huffed, waving an arm for emphasis. "I have seen how the women watch him, never able to take their eyes off him." Her eyes narrowed as she continued in a dark, possessive tone. "Several look at him as if he is but a tasty morsel they would gleefully add to their trenchers."

"That is true," Heather agreed, nodding her head and biting her lip. The jealousy Sara could not quite mask was amusing and she strove to contain her mirth. "There are many who would love to capture the noble knight and spend a night warming his bed."

Sara blushed at Heather's frank description but motioned for her to continue. "The thing is Sara, Gil does not notice such lusty appraisal. He is similarly unaware of the effect his appearance has on those about him. Since he is not seeking such base comforts from the many women who would have him, he is blind to their lusty looks and subtle advances."

"Why? I thought most men, especially those not bound by the vows of marriage, would welcome such...opportunities."

"Gil is not most men, Sara," Heather reminded her gently. Sara suddenly remembered Grissom telling her earlier in the evening that he was different and did not find pleasure in the same trappings as they. "While I am certain that on a purely physical level he would enjoy the release a meaningless tussle would provide, I just feel he is looking for something more, something deeper than just relieving his manly urges."

"Has he ever lain with anyone?"

Heather's laugh rang through the chamber. "Oh my, yes. Your father dragged him out wenching when they were much younger. James was overly concerned about Gil's piety and sought to loosen him up a bit."

Both women were silent for a few moments before Heather pierced Sara with an appraising stare. "You are interested in him," she said softly.

"Very much so," Sara admitted with a shy nod. "I have been for as long as I can remember."

"Why? What is it about him that has captured your attention?"

Sara floundered, staring into the flames of the fireplace as she tried to explain to Heather feelings she scarcely understood herself. "I don't know. But next to him, all others my father would parade before me seem lacking."

"Are you comparing your potential suitors to Gil or to the fabled Black Monk?"

Sara's brow furrowed as she looked curiously at Heather, startled and confused by the question. "Are they not one and the same?"

Heather shook her head, her dark hair flowing richly about her shoulders. "Oh no, Sara, they are as different as night and day. You need to get to know Gil, to figure out which one it is who has managed to capture your imagination. If it is merely the knight, but not the man underneath, then you need to let him go before you do him further damage."

**And I ride stone blind**

**And I ride stone blind**

**And I ride stone blind****

* Psalm 76: 20 "Thy way is in the sea, and thy paths in many waters: and thy footsteps shall not be known."

** "Ride Stone Blind." Words and Music by John Stewart. Wingless Angels (RCA, APL1 0816, 1975)


	6. Chapter Five

Author's Notes...Thank you, Smacky, for helping to complete my half-baked thoughts. And...a kiss is a kiss is a kiss. But when it is a Cinco kiss, it is something to write home about. Thank you very much for all of the help and for the scene.

**Chapter Five**

_**Oh raging with the light,**_

_**the morning comes to slay the night alone**_

_**Oh raging with the light, **_

_**the morning comes to slay the night alone**_

_**Slay the night alone**_

Heavy gray clouds marred the morning sky but the threat of rain did little to dampen the spirits of the large crowd assembled in the wooden bleachers outside the castle. They were anxiously awaiting the start of the much anticipated Tournament of Knights. The returning knights would be showing off their hard earned skills and vying for the grand prize; one that had yet to be announced. King James was keeping the final award a secret until the start of the joust and the audience buzzed with speculation on what he might have to offer. The trophy would have to be rather spectacular to top the riches the knights had already amassed during the Crusade.

All heads turned towards the field as blaring trumpets and fluttering banners heralded the arrival of the King and his company. James, mounted astride a jet black steed and robed in a deep, blood red ankle-length tunic with a heavy golden crown perched atop his head at a jaunty, lopsided angle, led a long procession of family, court, knights, squires, vassals and henchmen. He was followed by Queen Sofia and Princess Sara riding in tandem and then by the Black Monk leading the boisterous company of competing knights. James led the parade to his royal box in the center of the bleachers, dismounted and made his way to his heavy, ornately carved, padded throne.

Grissom signaled the column to remain at a halt and swung from his saddle with practiced ease. He tossed the reins to Sandre before turning to assist Sofia from her mount. Another squire rushed forward to escort the Queen to the stands and Grissom moved alongside Sara's horse to help her to the ground. Hesitating for just a moment, he reached up, his large hands gently encircling her waist. Sara laid her own upon his sturdy shoulders and leaned forward to allow him to ease her from the side-saddle.

Their eyes met and held, a flare of heat rising swiftly between the two as Sara's body slid along Grissom's in a surprisingly intimate caress. He slowly lowered her to the ground and for those few delicious, stolen moments, the rest of the world ceased to exist. The roars of the crowd, the stamping and snuffling of the horses, the clattering and clanging of maille; everything simply faded into the background. For that all-too-brief eternity, all that mattered was the accidental slide of their bodies, the dizzying sensual awareness of each other, the pounding of two hearts awakened to needs neither fully realized and scarcely recognized.

Sara clung to his broad shoulders, savoring the hard press of his muscled body against hers before huffing a regretful sigh and reluctantly stepping back to straighten the skirt of her flowing gown in a nervous flutter of trembling fingers. She covertly watched Grissom while smoothing imaginary wrinkles in her clothes, wondering if he was as affected by the brief contact as she was. Allowing herself a private, delighted grin when his eyes closed and his head dropped, she watched those rough, capable hands opening and closing into restless fists. He drew in a shuddering breath and raised his gaze to her, something indefinable flickering in the dark blue depths before he wordlessly offered his arm to escort her into the stands.

_**Something caught my eye **_

_**'Cause I thought I saw the seven Angels**_

_**blazing in the sky**_

_**Oh, I thought I saw the seven Angels **_

_**blazing in the sky**_

_**Coming out of the sky **_

_**Coming out of the sky**_

A disappointed buzz flowed through the crowd as Grissom led Princess Sara to her seat and then took the one seat left vacant between her and King James. They all were well aware of the fact that the Black Monk rarely participated in any of the local jousting tournaments as they knew he saw no need and had no desire to compete. His legend preceded him and spoke clearly of his skills. Many, however, had hoped that he would change his mind and participate since this particular festival was a celebration of his, and the other knights', victories in the crusades.

Sara was delighted Grissom had chosen to forgo the day's competition and was seated next to her. She watched him covertly, peeking beneath her long lashes to admire his rich, dark green tunic worn over his trademark black undershirt. Despite it being the custom for men to wear some sort of head covering, Grissom's head was bare. His hair was tied again at his nape; the steel gray of his temples matching the somber cast of the clouds. The only adornments he had chosen to wear were his Hospitaller's pendant about his neck and his prayer beads tied securely to his black leather belt.

"Gil?" James squirmed uncomfortably and shot Grissom a dark look. "Have you a remedy in that pouch of herbs and salves you haul about with you to ease a bruised ass?"

Grissom pursed his lips and smoothed a hand down his beard in an effort to hide his mirth.

"'Tis been many years since I last mounted a nag and now I remember why."

"Aye, Sire," Grissom managed with a straight face. "I have some salve that will greatly relieve the discomfort you are feeling. But," he continued, eyes crinkling with merriment, "you will have to apply it yourself."

"No offense, Gil," James began with a bark of amusement, "but you are the last person that I would have groping beneath my gores."

Grissom chuckled silently and turned his attention to Sara. She was wearing a royal purple velvet gown with a shimmering gold coronet perched atop her lavender veil. He was pleased to note that Sara was wearing her cross as well. A flush of pleasure lighting his face, he slowly reached out a finger to tap it. Drawing his hand back, a shy smile touched his lips for just a moment, a flash so quick Sara thought she might have imagined it.

Across the jousting plain, the young, single knights, bedecked in their finest tunics and armor pranced about, preening in their mightiest stances in an attempt to catch Sara's eye. The Princess, however, remembering Heather's advice from the previous night, was oblivious to their blatant posturing; her attention completely devoted to the solemn knight seated to her left. She returned his simple familiar gesture by laying her own finger on a small bit of embroidery on the sleeve of his smock.

"How came you to be aligned with the Knights Hospitaller?

_**And if it all was only water, we would be the rain**_

_**You can see your sons and daughters **_

_**flourishing the cane**_

_**And as we have been here before, **_

_**we will come again**_

_**If it all was water, we are the rain**_

_**We are the rain, **_

_**We are the rain**_

Grissom pursed his lips; his gaze focused on some far off point across the tournament grounds. He was silent for so long Sara was not sure he was going to answer. She glanced beyond the knight at her father while waiting for Grissom's answer; perplexed and somewhat taken aback that James was actually following the conversation and that he was watching Grissom with a strange look on his face, as if he somehow feared the knight's answer.

"I was sent to the Hospitaller's" he began cautiously, seeming to choose his words very carefully, "shortly after my dubben. 'Twas the opinion of King Radulfus that a period of training and fighting alongside warrior knights involved in actual warfare would be of great benefit to not only me but those other knights who served him."

Sara nodded her head in understanding, waiting for him to continue. When it appeared he had nothing further to say, she decided to prod him just a little. Grissom was not a talkative man but getting him to speak about himself was proving to be more difficult than she had anticipated. "But why you and not one of the older knights?"

"The Hospitallers are a Benedictine Order. I was the only member of the King's command who had lived and studied within a Benedictine cloister. I could adjust to their austere ways more easily than one who had never before been subjected to such a rigid way of living."

Sara saw the relieved expression cross her father's face and realized that while Grissom had been truthful, there was much more to this particular story. They were hiding something, she was certain of that, but she also knew that pushing either of them on the topic would be useless. Setting the subject aside, she decided to pursue a different path to see if perhaps some additional information would come to light.

"So, did the time you spent in service of the Hospitallers lead to you being known as 'The Black Monk'?"

"No." He finally turned to look at her, an amused twitch of a grin lighting his features. "That moniker is a burden I have carried since I was fourteen or so." Grissom heaved a dramatic sigh and shook his head with feigned aggravation. "Your father thought me too pious and morose from my years in the monastery and gave me the title as a joke."

Sara laughed gently and finally turned away to look at the knights lining up across the grounds awaiting the start of the tournament. She scanned the faces and colors, making mental notes of those she recognized, those who were missing and those who were new. "Where is your young squire?" she asked, turning quickly to address Grissom. "Is Sandre competing today?"

"No." Grissom's response was blunt; a stern, gruff bark laced with an unusual hint of protectiveness. Sara blinked at the harshness of his tone and he seemed to soften, his voice growing quiet and slightly apologetic. "Sandre is far too young and inexperienced for an event such as this. I would fear for his safety."

"Sandre is a foundling," he murmured in a low voice, offering Sara an explanation for both the situation and his earlier harsh tone. "His parents were killed and he had no other to champion his cause. I assumed responsibility for his care until we returned home." Grissom bowed his head momentarily before lifting his gaze back across the field where the knights continued to assemble. "He has family not far from here. I expect that he will be leaving soon to return to them."

Studying the man sitting beside her, Sara's brow creased with puzzlement as she attempted to fathom Grissom's mood. His protectiveness and sudden gloominess at the boy's impending departure surprised her. She thought he would have been pleased to see the lad gone, as he had always preferred to stand alone, but he seemed almost dejected that Sandre would soon be leaving. Sara decided that the time had come to keep her promise to the would-be squire. "Sandre does not wish to go."

A raised eyebrow greeted her quiet declaration and Sara shared a part of the conversation she had had with Sandre the previous afternoon. "He told me yesterday that he would prefer to remain in your service than work on his uncle's farm." Grissom nodded and swung his gaze back to the grounds, seemingly deep in thought. She decided to pursue the subject no further and embarked upon a different topic in an attempt to break through the melancholy that had begun to settle about him.

"And what of you, Sir Knight?" she asked, feigning an innocent expression. "Why do you not compete today? Do you see no need to further demonstrate your prowess with your mighty sword?"

Grissom's eyes widen and a slow blush creeps above the line of his beard to settle upon his cheeks. He understood the bawdier implications of Sara's words but did not know how to respond. The princess was not one with whom he could exchange crude quips so he merely bit his lower lip and remained silent. Sara, making the most of her advantage, showed no mercy and slung another carefully worded barb his way. "You feel no urge to lift your lance?"

He shot Sara a pleading, almost pathetic, sidelong glance and she laughed gaily in response. All of those years listening to the bolder women about the keep had served her well.

James had been watching and listening to their conversation and did not bother trying to suppress the merry twinkle in his eye as he stood to officially open the tournament and announce the grand prize. He was planning to bestow a tract of land upon the warrior exhibiting the most style and finesse but the interaction between his knight and his daughter had given him a better idea.

Rising from his throne, the King raised his hands to silence the crowd. An air of anticipation settled about the stands as they waited for him to announce the grand prize. James cleared his throat and, grinning at his daughter with a merry twinkle in his eye, announced that the winner of the day's tournament would be awarded.... He paused then, letting the moment build before revealing, "The winner and knight champion of this festival will be awarded one single kiss from Princess Sara."

The audience greeted his declaration with a boisterous round of applause and the competing knights whooped with glee. Grissom scowled. Sara scrunched her nose in disgust and rolled her eyes.

_**Oh raging with the light, **_

_**the morning comes to slay the night alone**_

_**Oh raging with the light, **_

_**the morning comes to slay the night alone**_

_**Slay the night alone **_

_**Something caught my eye**_

It was late in the afternoon when a gangly lad wearing a bright scarlet tunic over his maille walked to the center of the field. His armor was overly large and ill-fitting, obviously borrowed from an older brother or father, and clattered noisily with every reluctant step he took. The youth reached the center of the field and stood before e King. Drawing a deep breath, he shook a shock of heavy black hair from his eyes and squared his shoulders.

"Sire," the boy shouted, his young voice cracking as he tried to quell his nerves and be heard over the rumbling of the crowd, "may I have your leave to call out one of your knights for duel?"

James raised his eyebrows at the odd request but waved a hand at the boy indicating that he should continue.

"I wish to call out your Knight Champion, the Black Monk."

A startled gasp rose from the stands and a pained look crossed Grissom's face as his shoulders slumped wearily. Sara touched the back of his hand in sympathy, understanding that he had no desire to joust with this stripling lad. James stared blankly at the youth, who could not have been more than sixteen if that, and questioned those around him as to the young man's identity.

Lady Catherine cleared her throat and leaned forward in her seat to get James' attention. "That is Berenger, Sire, the eldest of Tarek's brood.

"That ass is too cowardly to call Gil out on his own so he sends this child to do it in his stead?" James questioned with a fierce scowl. "I know Tarek has an aversion to soiling his own hands with his filthy schemes but this is beneath even him."

"I do not want to do this," Grissom said, his voice low and tight with repressed anger. "I would have no difficulty accepting such a challenge from Tarek but I'll not fight this... this...boy."

"Gil, you must. You have no choice." James' voice was laced with sympathy for he knew full well that the warrior-knight had no desire to fight anyone, let alone his own nephew.

Grissom nodded reluctantly, bowing his head and sighing heavily. After a moment of thought he raised his eyes and, looking pointedly at the King, asked, "You will stop it immediately?" When James nodded his agreement, he continued, "I do not wish to dishonor the lad but I refuse to hurt him. This is not of his own doing."

"Well enough," replied the King. "Go arm yourself for what will most likely be the shortest duel ever fought and I shall announce that the contest is on."

Sandre had heard Berenger call out the Black Monk and was waiting in the stable with Grissom's arms, armor and horse when the knight entered with a bleak frown upon his face. Grissom unconcernedly stripped down to his braies, took the Gambeson shirt from Sandre and slipped it on over his black undershirt.

"Who is that boy and why was he foolish enough to call you out?" Sandre asked, outraged that such a churlish pup would have the audacity, nay, the stones to dare call out the Black Monk. "Surely he knows he cannot win."

"Apparently he is my nephew, though I have never before laid eyes upon him." Grissom huffed a sigh mixed with melancholy and confusion as he pulled the laces of his padded breeches tight before reaching for the maille leggings Sandre was holding. "I don't know what Tarek hopes to accomplish by all of this."

He looked at Sandre curiously while he donned his armor. "Lady Sara said that you have something to discuss with me."

Sandre's hands faltered from their practiced movements of securing the laces of the heavy leggings for just a moment, his mind racing in an attempt to figure out what, exactly, Grissom meant. It dawned on him after a moment of thought that Princess Sara had been true to her word and had found an opportunity to speak with the knight on his behalf.

"I do not wish to return to my family, Milord," he began hesitantly. Grissom's face was unreadable and Sandre had no idea how Grissom would respond to his request to continue to serve as a squire. He swallowed heavily, mustered his courage and continued. "All that awaits me there is a lifetime of tilling fields and harvesting crops. I want more than that now."

"Your life as my squire will not be easy, Sandre," Grissom warned with a raised eyebrow. "You will work harder and longer than you ever would in the fields."

Sandre looked at the ground, scuffing his toe in the dirt as he blindly offered Grissom a padded linen hood. "I know that, Milord," he replied softly. "I still wish to remain."

"You will belong to me until such a time as I deem you ready for dubben," Grissom stated in a flat tone, giving nothing away. "Do you wish to relinquish your freedom and stay with me under such terms?"

"I will not be free as a serf, Milord." Sandre's voice was laced with frustration and hope. "This is my one chance to truly make something of myself, to be better than I had ever hoped." He finally raised his head to chance a glance the fierce warrior, timidly meeting Grissom's shuttered gaze with an earnest, pleading face.

Grissom regarded the young man for a long moment before huffing a sigh. "Very well, Sandre," he finally muttered, donning his chain coif. "I shall speak to your uncle and offer him compensation for your services. Henceforth you shall be bound to me as my squire and I shall assume full responsibility for your safety, training and well-being. In return," he finished, his voice growing stern, "you shall give me your very best efforts.

"Aye, Milord." Sandre could barely stop the grin flitting at the corners of his mouth as he watched Grissom attach his sword and prayer beads to his belt and handed the Black Monk his heavy full helm.

"Sandre," Grissom began, shaking his head slightly and fighting a small smile of his own. "Addressing me by title is unnecessary. I am known only as Grissom."

"Yes Mil...I mean, Grissom."

_**'Cause I thought I saw**_

_**the seven Angels blazing in the sky**_

_**Oh, I thought I saw **_

_**the seven Angels blazing in the sky**_

_**Coming out of the sky**_

_**Coming out of the sky**_

Grissom rode out onto the tournament ground, his commanding transformation into the revered Black Monk complete. He could see the fear in the eyes of his nephew as they lined up on opposite sides of the long carefully manicured hedge and shook his head sadly when the boy lost control of his bladder, the evidence of his terror growing in damp stains along the inner sides of his chausses. Grissom exchanged a meaningful glance with the king as he adjusted his wooden lance and, with a resounding bleat from the herald's trumpet, the challenge was on.

Berenger was easily unseated from his horse by the blow from Grissom's lance and he lay momentarily stunned, shaking his head to clear his blurred vision. He watched with growing trepidation as the Black Monk almost casually doffed his helm, coif and hood before advancing upon him in a slow measured tread. Berenger struggled to rise and face his uncle, but his knees failed to support him and all he could was crawl backwards in an attempt to escape.

"Stop, Berenger," came the firm but quiet command. "I am not going to hurt you. Be still and this will all be over."

Berenger nodded and did as he was told. He was visibly quaking as his uncle strode closer, the brightly polished sword catching the sunlight and flashing with a menacing glint with every step he took. The boy fell back upon the sod, tears leaking from behind his tightly closed eyes as he awaited the blow.

"Berenger, do not move at all. Just lie quietly. You will feel my blade touch lightly against your throat, nothing more."

Grissom carefully rested the point of his sword against his nephew's quivering flesh and turned to look at the stands. King James raised a hand and nodded once, indicating that the contest was met. Polite applause rippled through the crowd in recognition of the humility and grace the Black Monk had shown while battling his nephew.

Grissom bowed to the King and sheathed his weapon before extending a hand to help his nephew rise. Berenger accepted the assistance and scrambled to his feet while casting a quick look about to make sure that his father was not within earshot before nervously blurting, "Thank you for not hurting me and for not shaming me."

Inclining his head but saying nothing, Grissom silently invited him to continue.

"I don't know why Father hates you," Berenger gulped, his words tumbling over one another as he hastened to finish before losing his courage. "I have been watching you for several years now and I have yet to see any of the horrible qualities he attributes to you. I wish," he faltered slightly, "I wish that I could act as your squire and learn properly how to fight but Father will not hear of it. I have begged him for years for permission to approach you with an offer to serve."

Berenger's nervous words stopped abruptly as a red-faced Tarek approached, shoving the boy roughly aside to stand toe to toe with his hated younger brother. Tarek yanked his fine leather gauntlets from his hands, grasped both gloves in his right fist and used them to smack Grissom smartly across the face. Grissom neither blinked nor started from the force of the blow but stood fast and regarded his brother with a steady, mocking gaze.

A loud gasp was heard throughout the stands as the implication of Tarek's gesture sank in and all eyes swiftly turned to the Royal Box to see how King James would react. James scarcely heard the reaction of the audience; his attention was on Grissom and how the knight wanted to respond to this unexpected turn of events. A scarcely perceptible nod greeted his unspoken query and James raised a hand to announce that the Monk had accepted the challenge.

Grissom strode slowly and confidently to the south end of the field where Sandre was waiting, holding Odysseus' reins in one hand while juggling the knight's helm, coif and hood with the other. Tarek grabbed Berenger below the lad's left elbow and all but dragged him to the opposite end of the field to act as his own squire.

Sandre was outraged and fairly bristling with anger by the insult Tarek had hurled at Grissom. "Your brother is a fool, Mil...Grissom," he growled. "Much more so than his hapless son."

Grissom shot the lad a severe glance, warning him without words to hold his tongue. "Do not blame the son for the sins of the father, Sandre. Berenger had no choice." When the young squire nodded his understanding, the knight muttered a quiet instruction and watched while the boy ran off to do as he was told.

Sandre returned to the field breathless and panting, watching in alarm as Grissom mounted his charger and prepared to head out to face Tarek. "Grissom, wait," he called anxiously, holding up some discarded pieces of armor. "You forgot your helm."

"I am not going to wear it," the knight stated in a flat voice void of all emotion. "Tarek does not deserve the distinction of fighting the Monk. I am the one he despises therefore I am the one he shall face."

_**And if it was a desert island, **_

_**we would be the sand**_

_**Can you tell the difference **_

_**in the woman and the man**_

_**Oh there is only one of us **_

_**but we have many hands**_

_**If it all was an island, **_

_**we are the sand**_

_**Then we are the sand, **_

_**We are the rain**_

Grissom took the reins from Sandre and shouldered his lance. He bowed his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he must do. Quickly, he muttered a prayer, clearing his mind of everything except the battle before him.

_**Domine, deduc me in justitia tua: propter inimicos meos dirige in conspectu tuo viam meam.***_

He raised his head to stare directly into his brother's eyes. Grissom's gaze never wavered as he summoned his concentration to the task at hand but Tarek could not meet the challenge; his eyes slid away several times before finally resting on the leather reins he held in his shaking hands. At the signal from the herald, the knight lowered his weapon and dug his golden spurs into Odysseus' flanks as he urged the galloping roan down the hedge row. The Black Monk's aim was true and Tarek was sent easily flying from the saddle, his untried lance falling uselessly to the ground.

Grissom dismounted and drew his sword, his posture bored as he nonchalantly wiped a trace of perspiration from his brow and waited patiently for his brother to rise. Tarek rolled to his knees gasping for breath, finally screaming for Berenger to assist him when he regained his voice. Sandre grabbed the other boy's arm as Berenger took a step towards his father and shook his head sharply. "Nay. It is forbidden. Other than to hand him a weapon, we can do nothing to assist. Come on, we need to get the horses out of the way lest they get spooked and charge."

Sandre and Berenger ran to the steeds, grabbed the reins and led them to the far end of the field where they could safely watch the remainder of the duel unfold.

"I hope the Black Monk kills him," Berenger muttered.

Sandre gaped at his companion, shaking his head as if to make sure he had heard Berenger correctly. "That is your father," he said with astonishment.

"He is the devil," spat Berenger, his youthful face marred by a severe frown. "He is evil and consumed by hatred."

Sandre regarded him for a long moment, assessing the truth behind Berenger's words and emotions before nodding to himself and reaching into the pouch on his belt to retrieve the item Grissom had bid him fetch. He elbowed Berenger in the ribs to get his attention and swiftly passed him a small crock covered with a bit of bleached linen.

"Ouch!" Berenger winced, regarding Sandre with a wary eye as he accepted the earthenware pot.

"'Tis a healing balm. Grissom said to rub it on the bruise you will have from the lance blow. You need to apply it three times a day. Do not let your father know that he gave it to you for he worries that such knowledge could cause your father to do you much harm." Berenger nodded his understanding while tucking the jar safely away in his own belt pouch. "This is all he can do to help you right now but he asks that you be patient."

Berenger's head snapped up, his surprise evident. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

Sandre nodded once and leaned a little closer, a mischievous grin flirting about the edges of his mouth. "Grissom also mentioned that you need to change your hosen."

Berenger flushed but possessed the grace and humor to return the grin before both young men once again returned their attention to the field.

Tarek had finally managed to regain his footing and was waving his sword about in a feeble attempt to escape the skilled thrusts and overhand blows raining down mercilessly from his brother. The force of Grissom's assault drove Tarek to his knees; from there it was but child's play for Grissom to knock the sword from his hand and render him utterly helpless. Grissom stood over his brother for a long, dangerous moment, his gaze inscrutable, before finally stepping away a few paces to address the King and ask if the contest had been met.

A look of alarm on James' face and a horrified gasp from Sara served to warn Grissom that something was amiss. Tarek had grabbed his sword, gotten to his feet and was rushing Grissom from behind. Grissom turned just in time to duck beneath Tarek's enraged sneak attack. Shifting his sword swiftly from his right hand to his left, he swung his arm in a powerful sweeping motion and slapped Tarek solidly on the ass with the broad side of the blade as he flew past. The momentum added to his charge from the force of Grissom's blow caused Tarek to lose his footing and propelled him face first into a steaming pile of fresh horse dung.

**Erubescant, et conturbentur vehementer, omnes inimici mei; convertantur, et erubescant valde velociter.****

Tarek limped from the field in shame, flinging manure from his face with every step he took. He paused for a moment, listening as James declared Grissom to be the grand champion of the tournament and thus winning the prize of a kiss from Princess Sara. Tarek resumed his walk, seething, and silently vowing to kill his younger brother for bringing this humiliation upon him. Even his son had deserted him, wandering off to the stables with Grissom's squire. Oh yes, his little brother would pay for this public abasement and pay dearly, as would those who had dared laugh at him in defeat.

A troubled from creased the King's brow as he watched Tarek go. Turning to Grissom, James remarked, "Although I know you enjoyed doing that as much as I liked watching it, you probably should not have smacked your brother on the ass like that. I know it was not your intention to send him flying face first into the horse shit - well, maybe it was - but you thoroughly humiliated in front of everyone. He will not rest until he is able to take you down once and for all."

"He was charging my back," Grissom replied, his jaw set stubbornly. "I had the right to defend myself."

"Gil," James replied, holding up his hands to calm the knight, "I am not questioning what you did. As far as I am concerned, Tarek should consider himself fortunate that you did not run him through then and there. All I am saying is that he already hates you and he is not likely to let such a public embarrassment go without seeking some sort of revenge."

_**Oh raging with the light, **_

_**the morning comes to slay the night alone**_

_**Oh raging with the light, **_

_**the morning comes to slay the night alone**_

_**Slay the night alone**_

Lady Catherine could scarcely contain her mirth, small snorting giggles escaping behind a hand held demurely over her mouth. "Oh that was delicious. How I love to see Tarek so handily put into his place."

Heather regarded her with a knowing eye. "Was it the fact that Tarek was publicly shamed that amuses you so or merely that Gil was the one who made sport of him."

"Both. Tarek has been baiting Gil mercilessly for years and Gil simply walks away. 'Tis fitting that he finally regained a measure of his own in such a grand style."

"You and Gil have been friends for many years. Why have things never moved beyond that?"

Catherine's smile quickly disappeared as she gazed at Heather through narrowed, appraising eyes. "We were simply not meant to move beyond friendship," she finally replied. "When I was unwed, he was always away somewhere fighting for King and country. When he was at home, I was spoken for." She finished with a raised eyebrow, all but daring her companion to find fault with her response.

"What about now?" Heather asked smoothly, unconcerned by Catherine's sudden defensive attitude. "You are a widow, unbeholden to anyone, and Gil is very much a bachelor. Will you seek him out in hopes of deepening your relationship?"

Catherine responded with a firm shake of her head. "No, Heather. Too much time has passed. While we are dear friends there will never be anything more between us. Besides," she said, leaning closer and dropping her voice to just above a whisper, "you know as well as I that Gil's heart is spoken for and has been for years."

"Ah, you noticed?"

"It is hard not to see what is brewing." Catherine paused for a moment, searching for the right words. "Heather, do not misunderstand me. Gil would be a wonderful companion and I have no doubt that we would both be content if married. He would be a loving and caring father to Lindsey, pleased to raise her as his own. In truth, he would probably treat me with more care and respect than any other."

Heather nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"I have loved Gil as a friend for years. He is a good man. I want him to find some happiness. But, we both know that I am not the one who can give him that."

"We are agreed, then."

Catherine gleefully rubbed her hands together, a glint of mischief flashing across her face. "Shall we play matchmaker?"

"I don't think we need to do anything so drastic. They are already quite interested in the other. I think a few gentle nudges and some well-placed encouragement will suffice."

The two scheming woman clasped hands to seal their bargain as Grissom gingerly placed his hands on Sara's shoulders to claim his prize.

"If you do not wish to follow through with this..." Grissom began, his voice trailing off as Sara flashed him a grin and settled her hands upon his waist.

"Oh no, Sir Knight," she said, tightening her grip until his maille began to cut small circlet patterns into her delicate fingers. "You won the contest fair and square. I would not hold back a reward from someone so deserving."

They gazed at each other for a long beat of a moment; one so long Sara found herself holding her breath. Before her courage could fail her and shame her father, she lightly tipped her head and leaned forward, waiting for the Black Monk to claim his prize.

Grissom mirrored her gesture, making a perfect match to Lady Sara, and the soft, slow touch of their mouths united them sweetly. For the pulse of a lifetime; the dizzy enchantment of Sara's lips on his captured his heart in a glorious squeeze. It was tender, tender as the brush of a butterfly's wing, and yet infused with the promise of passion yet to come.

Beyond them the crowd roared in approval, and the noise rose like a wave over the grounds, swelling through the air. Neither Grissom nor Sara heard it, lost as they were in the intimately sweetness of their kiss. Sara trembled, and had she not been holding onto Grissom's maille, she might have fallen, but even as Grissom regretfully pulled away, he steadied her with big hands coming up under elbows in support. She blinked, sorrowing to lose the warmth and comfort of his lips.

Grissom's face might have been set in its usual expressionless mask but Sara focused on the lone bead of sweat trailing down from his temple to disappear in his beard. He had been just as affected by the kiss as she.

Everyone was so caught up in the kiss shared by the Princess and the Black Monk and by Tarek's comeuppance that no one, not even King James, noticed Sofia slipping from the stands to make her way towards the stable.

_**Something caught my eye**_

_**And I thought I saw **_

_**the seven Angels blazing in the sky**_

_**Oh, I thought I saw **_

_**the seven Angels blazing in the sky**_

_**Coming out of the sky**_

_**Coming out of the sky*****_

* Psalm 5:9 "Conduct me, O Lord, in thy justice: because of my enemies, direct my way in thy sight."

** Psalm 6:11 "Let all my enemies be ashamed, and be very much troubled: let them be turned back, and be ashamed very speedily."

*** "Seven Angels" Words and Music by John Stewart. _The Secret Tapes II_ (Homecoming, 650, 1987), _Neon Beach_ (Homecoming, 700, 1990)


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

_**Green eyes and summer moonlight**_

_**Blue moon in a summer's sky**_

_**The future in moment's glances**_

_**Heaven in a lover's eye**_

The two months following the Knight's Tournament passed far too slowly and, at the same time, much too swiftly for Sara's liking. Grissom was constantly on the move, traveling back and forth between the Royal Castle and his own lands, tending to errands and services for his king while trying to reacquaint himself with the needs of his own estate.

Sara bristled beneath the weight of his demanding personal and professional duties. She grew moody and disagreeable when his obligations took him away from the castle; so unpleasant, in fact, that no one, not even her father, could stand to be in her presence for more than a few moments at a time. Her disinterest and hasty dismissal of any possible suitors presented before her caused James to abandon his efforts to see his daughter wed until her temperament improved.

More often than not, Sara chose the seclusion of her chambers rather than subject her family to her ill temper. She could not concentrate on her needlepoint for her stitches were but angry, haphazard jabs through the linen, riding gave her no pleasure, reading failed to distract her mind and she was at a loss as to how to deal with the searching restlessness that had come to dominate her spirit. Her thoughts were relentlessly drawn to Grissom; to the memory of his clean, musky scent, the feel of his war-hardened body, the lyrical timbre of his voice. The power and pleasure of the simple kiss they shared had preyed heavily upon her senses. The recollection of that single blissful moment kept replaying in her mind, making her feel his absence all the more keenly.

When Grissom was about the palace, however, the days flew past with the swiftness of the winda fleet. Sara found any excuse, no matter how mundane or frivolous, to seek him out and demand his attention. She insisted on sitting beside him at all meals, begged him to read to her by the light of the fire when the Great Hall had emptied for the night and stood over his right shoulder like a silent beacon as he played chess with her father. She asked him to go for long walks about the palace grounds or lengthy rides through the forest and tried to draw him out of his shell, tried to get to know better the gentle man of which Heather spoke.

One unseasonably warm late autumn day, Sara enticed Grissom from his duties and the couple found themselves by a small stream not far from the keep. A picnic basket had been prepared by the castle cooks and they sat on a blanket listening to the water dance over the rocks while enjoying a light lunch of bread, cheese and fruit.

They sat closely together on the blanket, Sara absently weaving a garland from late summer wildflowers. Grissom reclined, his ankles crossed and right arm pillowing his head as he lay on his back watching the clouds drift by. Neither said much but theirs was the comfortable, companionable silence of two kindred spirits lazily enjoying the mild weather and the company of one another.

Sara glanced at Grissom, taking in his relaxed features with a small, satisfied smile before tossing her fragrant wreath upon the edge of the blanket and reaching over to lightly feather her fingers through his hair. His eyebrows arched with surprise at the suddenness of her gesture, but he accepted the intimacy without flinching. Sara had been touching him quite a bit lately and he was growing accustomed to the feel of her hands upon him.

"You cut your hair."

Grissom yawned lazily, his gaze still directed towards the clouds. "Myria did it."

"Who?" Sara demanded, a sharp flare of jealousy rearing its ugly head. She had never heard mention of this Myria person and demanded to know who she was. She was very unhappy with the thought of any woman being familiar enough with Grissom to perform such a personal service as cutting his hair.

Grissom rolled his head towards her and regarded her with an odd expression, not sure what to make of her sudden harsh tone or flash of temper. "Myria and her husband Conrad run my household," he explained hurriedly, "and see to my affairs while I am away for extended periods of time."

"Oh," she said, dropping her eyes to pick at an imaginary thread on her gown while she considered this piece of information and decided that she need harbor no fear of this woman. "Well," she began, finally raising her face to his again, "she has shorn you like a spring lamb."

Nodding his agreement, Grissom relaxed. "She said I looked like a common knave." The feigned annoyance in his tone and on his face seemed to indicate that he did not particularly care whether or not he looked like a rogue and that he had merely indulged his chatelaine.

Sara giggled. "And that is a problem?"

"Evidently," he shrugged.

"The next thing you know," Sara said, trying to twine a finger about one of his shortened curls, "she will be shaving the top of your head and you will look more like a monk than you do now."

His brows drew together as he considered her words. "Are you displeased?" he asked with a hint of nervousness.

"No, Grissom, not at all," she laughed gaily, her amusement twinkling in her eyes. "You are a handsome man regardless of whether your hair is short or bound at the nape of your neck.

Sara watched with delight as a faint blush colored his cheeks above his beard. Grissom was obviously not accustomed to being complimented on his looks. Heather was right. The knight had no inkling as to how attractive he truly was.

"Gris?" Her tone was light but a current of steel ran beneath her words. "Just don't let her near your beard."

_**Friday falls like warm moonbeam**_

_**Monday falls and the rain is cold**_

_**And Friday falls like sweet sunshine**_

_**Saturday falls like gold**_

"Why have you never married?"

Grissom blinked and cocked his head, startled by her sudden question. Sara had grown bold in her questioning of late and Grissom was unsure of her motivation. He did not know if she was merely curious, trying to make small talk, or if there was a deeper, more personal motive. The thought that her reasons might be along a more personal line both thrilled and frightened him.

"My life does not allow for such pleasures," he finally replied as he sat up to face Sara.

"You have never sought to court or marry?"

"Not really, no," he said with a slow shake of his head.

Sara crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, her face and voice colored by heavy skepticism. "None of the many women who throw themselves at you and constantly gaze upon you with lust in their eyes you have managed to catch your attention?"

"None of those fair ladies want to marry me," he scoffed, his lips twisted in a bitter smirk. "They merely wish to garner my reputation and holdings," he sneered derisively. "Any one of them that I would wed would pray nightly that I fall in battle so that they would stand to inherit all that I have earned."

"That is a rather harsh perception."

"Perhaps," he shrugged, "but it is true."

Grissom reached out and grasped her hand, willing her to believe the truth behind his jaded sentiments. "Sara, every hardship can be endured if you know that it is only temporary. Any woman would consent to be my wife, knowing that my days are numbered. They can play the gentle spouse and bed-mate for they know that one day soon I will not return. Once rid of me they will have gained a lofty station in life and be free to pursue their own hearts."

His words stumbled to halt and his face grew pensive. He idly played with Sara's fingers as he focused his gaze upon the swiftly running stream. "There is one, perhaps," he said, speaking more to himself than Sara, "who could abide my presence and feel some measure of affection towards me."

"Lady Catherine."

Sara's softly muttered response drew his attention back from the water and he tightened his grip about her hand again. "Yes. She and I have long been friends. It has crossed my mind several times to ask her to wed just to ease her life a bit and ensure that her daughter has a suitable dowry. She would be a good companion."

Narrowing her eyes, Sara regarded him for a long moment, seeking to understand all that he had not said. "But you do not love her." Her voice was quiet, but confident, a statement rather than a question.

He shook his head, his response a silent "no."

Sara reached for his other hand, drawing him closer. "Has anyone ever managed to capture your heart?"

"Aye," he whispered, closing his eyes against the sudden pang of longing that rose within him.

Sara's breath caught in her throat at the pain in his low admission. She tightened her grip on their entwined hands, willing him to look at her. "And you do you not wish to take that woman to bride?"

His eyes slid away from hers as he huffed a humorless chuckle. "At one time that might have been possible, but those days are long since gone."

"But why?" she implored, pulling his gaze back to her. She swallowed tightly against the sudden unshed tears clogging her throat. "Why is it such an impossibility?"

"Sara..." Grissom shook his head, trying to make her understand. "It is just impossible," he sighed sadly. "Besides," he continued, regret dripping from his words, "I have reached the point in my life where I no longer have anything to offer a beautiful young woman."

She stared at their knotted hands, watching his thumb caress her knuckles as she puzzled over his response. "If you are concerned about your age, there are men much older than you taking maidens to wife."

Grissom nodded his head hesitantly, uncertain as to where Sara was taking the conversation. She let her eyes wander up and down his torso before asking in a frank manner, "Well, are you worried that you might not able to consummate your vows?" His eyes widened and he blushed profusely, his ears glowing a flaming red. Sara leaned closer, her voice a mere whisper against his cheek.

"I have heard the whisperings of woman who have found themselves wedded to older men hinting of such things, that their husbands no longer have the ability or desire to properly complete the rite of marriage."

He floundered a bit, not knowing how to answer. Sara was not some bawdy wench or fellow knight with whom he might bluntly discuss such matters. He cleared his throat. "I am...more than capable of fully consummating any oath which I might swear."

Sara looked at him then, her eyebrow cocked saucily, a blatant dare on her face and a look of shy desire in her eyes. Grissom held her gaze as he purposely removed his hands from hers and reached out to grasp her gently behind the neck. He leaned in slowly, his breath fanning over her features before pausing and giving her a last chance to refuse. She shook her head slightly, licking her lips in remembrance of their last kiss and anticipation of the next.

_**For a slow dance in a blue blue moon**_

_**A slow dance as the river runs**_

_**One chance came none to soon**_

_**For a slow dance in a blue blue moon**_

Grissom finally touched his lips to hers, the barest flicker of a caress that reawakened Sara's senses and sent her mind reeling. That spark was there again, rekindled and blazing, that jittery excitement that slid down her spine and had her clutching helplessly at his tunic as his lips brushed softly, gently against hers.

Pulling back, a breath of space between them, Grissom studied her flushed cheeks, the intensity of his gaze burning into her, searing her soul. Sara stared back, a silent plea growing in the deep chestnut of her eyes, an innocent entreaty he was powerless to refuse. He gathered her tightly against his chest and settled his mouth firmly against hers, savoring her warmth and sweetness before deepening the kiss, his lips moving and tasting with ruthless tenderness.

Sara reeled beneath the sensual onslaught, her hands slipping up to grip his shoulders. Grissom's mustache tickled her sensitive skin and a nip and suckle along her plump lower lip released a sigh a pleasure from deep within her. His tongue soothed along her lip before slipping inside to touch against hers. She started at the silky intrusion and would have pulled back from the strange sensation but his hand tangled in her hair beneath her maiden's veil to press her mouth securely against his. A low growl of pure male satisfaction rumbling from the depths of his chest sent answering white hot chills of excitement coursing through her and she slowly returned the intimate caress, running her tongue over his while fitting their lips more tightly together.

Growing bolder, Sara gently pushed her way into Grissom's mouth, testing and touching and exploring, thrilled to feel his heart racing against her chest in a rhythm that seemed to hasten with every kiss, every press of their lips, and every stroke of their tongues. The force of their passion had them moving against each other, trying to move closer until Sara lay on her back. Her hands slid from his shoulders down his muscular back, grasping and pulling at him until he lay half atop her, pushing her deeper into the folds of the blanket.

Awash in a flood of sensation, Sara buried one hand in Grissom freshly shorn curls and gripped his arm with the other, trying in vain to anchor herself against the tide of newly awakened sensuality that was threatening to pull her under. Surprised by the bulk of his arms, by the sheer strength of the trembling muscles hiding beneath the surface of his linen undershirt, she clutched him more tightly before sliding her hand down to twine her fingers with his.

She writhed helplessly beneath the onslaught of his hot wet kisses and feel of his hard body moving with hers. Scarcely understanding the urges compelling her onward, she pulled Grissom's hand to her breast, sliding her hand atop his to press his fingers more firmly against the bodice of her gown. He moaned into her mouth while his fingers gently squeezed, testing the weight and feel of her breast, pulling the fine woolen mantle more tightly to feel as much of her as possible.

Sara arched wantonly against his hand as he rubbed small circles against her sensitive nipple, trying to increase the contact, the delicious ripples spreading from her chest to settle hotly between her legs in an urgent throb of need. Grissom gave her breast one final squeeze before lifting his head to break their kiss.

Both were flushed and breathing hard, Grissom's eyes hooded and glowing with an odd mixture of vulnerability and what Sara could only guess to be desire. Sweat beaded along his hairline and temples, causing his hair to curl in tightly coiled ringlets. He bestowed a last brief kiss to the Maltese Cross pendant about her neck before finally moving away to sit up. Sara blew out a heavy breath before moving to sit aside him.

"Why did you stop?" she asked in a husky voice she scarcely recognized as being hers.

Grissom's head dropped and his hand reached for hers, his voice heavy with regret. "We need to return to the keep, Sara. I have to leave soon."

She shook her head, unwilling to believe he would leave, unwilling to let him go. "Stay. Please stay," she implored. "I do not want you to go."

"I must Sara." She could hear the regret weighing upon his words. "I have responsibilities, obligations to duty and my estate that I cannot ignore. I shall return soon, in a week's time or less if I can manage it, and then we will talk, about...this," he said, waving his hand back and forth between the two of them.

_**Music's like a midnight railroad**_

_**Electric as a dance hall band**_

_**Slow dance is a blues in moonlight**_

_**Moonlight is a lover's hand**_

Grissom knelt before a carved mahogany cross, a single candle illuminating the delicate craftsmanship and artistry of a thorny-crowned Christ in the hour of His death. Three scant days had passed since his picnic with Sara, three days of questions, confusion and seclusion.

The chapel, located down a short narrow hallway off the Great Hall of his estate, was cold; no fire lit this room and Grissom could see puffs of his own breath as he recited his Psalms aloud. Holding his worn Psalter and fingering the prayer beads securely fastened to his belt, he paused and lifted his head, puffing a grunt of frustration as his mind strayed yet again from the lessons and wisdom of the Scriptures. He rolled his head and hunched his shoulders to relieve the tension that had built during his long hours of prayer. His eyes were drawn to the fourteen rich wood carvings along either of the long stone walls depicting the Via Crucis*.

His gaze touched upon each of the scenes in turn; he could not see them well in the dim lighting, but knew them all by heart. Grissom's mind imparted what his eyes could not; filling in the details shrouded in the murky darkness and spinning his thoughts back to the Holy Land. He remembered the images and the scriptures, mumbling the words of the Apostles as he contemplated once again the passion and mystery and wonder of this ultimate sacrifice.

He had walked in those dusty footprints now erased by time when he visited the church of the Holy Sepulchre** and wandered the Garden of Gethsemane***. He had reflected upon the crucifixion and all that it represented and wondered if what he was doing in the name of God and Christ was truly righteous. He prayed daily for guidance, yet remained unsure as ever about whether or not his deeds had actually been those of a just and honorable man, a just and honorable cause. His mind was increasingly clouded by questions that seemed to have no clear answers.

Despite the many hours he spent in prayer seeking solace and guidance from his turbulent emotions, he found his thoughts ever turning towards Sara for comfort when he should be concentrating on his lessons and his Psalter. He still believed, devoutly. His faith had not faltered, but he found his focus was slowly shifting. For the first time in his life, something was actually competing with his theism and duty for his undivided attention. It was unsettling; it was frightening. He had never before been in this position and nothing in his training had prepared him for the intensity of the feelings that were bubbling to the surface.

The more time he spent with Sara, the further in love he fell despite his attempts to fight it. There was no future in pursuing her or longing for her; such a union would never come to pass. Fate had decreed he was to forever remain alone; for he could not undo the past or right the wrongs that had been done. He would pay the penance for those sins until the end of his days.

Grissom shook his head to clear his thoughts and pressed his knees harder into the cold stone floor as he turned his attention once again to his Psalter. He had to banish Sara from his mind. She was his greatest temptation, the forbidden fruit, the one battle he would never win.

_**Dreaming in blue blue shadows**_

_**Holding someone four four time**_

_**Dancing in a million shadows**_

_**Dancing in a lover's eye**_

A relentless banging on the door of the Great Hall drew Conrad from the kitchen. He held his body against the massive oaken portal to brace against the violent wind and keep the rain out as much as possible. The light from the torches framing either side of the entryway danced wildly in response to the fury of the tempest, their reflected light winking and flashing atop Conrad's bald pate as he cracked open the heavy door to find Berenger outside, shivering violently in the cold driving rain. His dark brows knitted suspiciously as he reluctantly allowed the boy to enter and herded him like an errant sheep over to the fire.

"I need to speak with Lord Grissom right away," the lad croaked, his voice trembling and cracking under the dual weights of nervousness and the bone-chilling cold. "'Tis a matter of great urgency and importance."

Conrad looked down his long, hawk-like nose at the boy, his distrust evident as he took in the lad's frightened face and worried eyes. He was well aware of Berenger's identity and wondered if Tarek had once again sent his son to do Grissom some harm. He had heard about Tarek's disgraceful actions at the Grand Tournament and suspected that the elder Grissom was up to no good.

"Please," Berenger begged, spreading his dark, rain-drenched cloak wide to show Conrad that he was bearing no weapons. "I need help to prevent a great wrong and do not know where else to turn. I give you my oath that I am here without my father's knowledge. He has done something terrible...."

Wordlessly indicating a wooden peg near the fire where Berenger should hang his sodden cloak, Conrad finally spoke. "Come", he said, once Berenger had removed the heavy dripping woolen garment and hung it up to dry, leading the way down a hall to the ornately carved door of the chapel. Berenger peeked around the partially opened door to see Grissom kneeling before the simple alter, his lips moving in silent prayer.

"You will wait until he is finished reciting his Psalms," Conrad whispered while grabbing the boy's arm to prevent him from entering.

"But..." Berenger began to argue but the ferocious look in Conrad's caused his words to die in his throat.

"You will wait."

Grissom felt a presence behind him as he prayed but banished it from his mind. He was distracted enough these days and knew whoever it was had been instructed to wait. Conrad would approach if it were truly an emergency.

Mumbling a final Paternoster and crossing himself, Grissom rose and turned towards the door, regarding Berenger with some surprise as he massaged his aching knees. Time and injuries had taken their toll and his joints suffered painfully from time to time. He walked slowly from the chapel with a slight limp in his gait and motioned for Berenger to follow him back into the hall. Conrad took his leave as the knight inclined his head towards a stool before the fire, indicating that Berenger should be seated. He poured them each a cup of tea from a kettle warming on the hearth before speaking.

"What brings you here on such a wicked night?"

"'Tis my father, Lord Grissom..." Berenger began, fiddling with his cup.

"There is no need to be so formal," Grissom interrupted in a gentle voice, attempting to quell some of his nephew's obvious unease. "You may call me Grissom as everyone else does, or Uncle, if you prefer."

Berenger nodded and took a scalding gulp of tea, the hot liquid causing him to grimace slightly. "My mother came to me this evening and told me that we must gather some things together for we needed to leave quickly. I was to help my younger brothers and sisters pack while Mother filled several bags with food."

Grissom's eyebrows arched but otherwise he made no attempt to interrupt Berenger's tale.

"From what I gathered, because she was very frightened and mostly babbling, Father and some others have kidnapped the Princess. She is but bait to lure you into a trap. Father has become a demon since you bested him in the Tournament. He rants and swears heartily about the humiliation he suffered at your hands and has vowed to see you dead. He has not the stones to seek you out man to man and decided to use Lady Sara as a means of calling you out."

Berenger's narrative dwindled into nothingness as he watched his uncle's eyes shift to a cold, steel gray and his large hands clench tightly into white-knuckled fists.

"Do you know where he planned on holding her?"

Grissom's voice was flat, wholly void of any emotion. All remnants of the gentle, civilized man were gone, replaced by the vaunted warrior who had never been bested in combat. Berenger swallowed his fear and regarded his uncle with growing awe and wonder. He had heard tales all throughout his childhood of the savage Black Monk who fought like a hell hound upon the plain. He had never seen his uncle in battle, but from the look in Grissom's eyes, he knew he never wanted to. The icy calm settling about the man frightened him more than anything he had ever seen.

"Aye, Uncle, he replied, regaining his voice. "Mother made mention of an Inn two days ride north of the Palace. Father knows that King James will send you to find his daughter. He will be waiting there to spring his trap and kill you."

Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Grissom addressed his nephew over his shoulder as he hurried from the Great Hall towards the kitchen. "Thank you, Berenger. Coming to me and turning against your Father took a great deal of courage." He paused and spun back to look the lad in the face. "You have done right by both yourself and the Princess."

Grissom resumed his trek to the kitchen, calling loudly for Myria as he went. When the small, gray haired woman appeared wiping her hands with a towel, the knight began giving orders in a calm voice.

"I need you to awaken Sandre and fetch a trustworthy lad from the village who is capable of riding all night to hie to the Castle and tell the King what has happened and that I am off in pursuit of Sara."

"He cannot do it?" she asked, waving a rough, chubby hand toward Berenger.

"No. Despite the fact he is entirely innocent in this matter and came to me as soon as he learned of his father's deeds, James will be enraged." Grissom paused and shot a glance at his nephew. "Berenger need not bear the force of that wrath."

"Aye, Milord," she replied. "I shall send Conrad to find someone. What do I need to make ready?"

Grissom thought for a moment, preparing a list in his mind. "Some warm clothes, blankets and three or four days worth of provisions. My large pouch of herbs and salves from my chamber. Do not take the time to pack anything elaborate. We can get by on soldier fare until we find safe haven."

Myria grabbed a burlap sack hanging from a peg near the fireplace and scurried off to rapidly pack as much as possible. Moments later a bleary-eyed Sandre rushed in wiping the last remnants of sleep from his face with a damp cloth.

"Saddle our steeds, Sandre. We need to leave forthwith. I need a large pack and weapons but no maille. We need to move as swiftly and silently as possible. Weave some strips of cloth through the metal workings of the bridles and stirrups to dampen the sound."

After watching Sandre hurry off in the direction of the stables, Grissom once again focused his attention on his nephew. "Do you know who else is involved with this?"

"Nay. The only person Mother called by name was Queen Sofia." Berenger's gaze dropped to the floor, his voice so low Grissom had to strain to hear him. "It would seem that the Queen and my father have been intimately involved for the past few months."

Grissom blinked his surprise at this revelation. "Very well," he mumbled, his mind racing with the implications of this bit of information. He looked at the frightened young man before him, and grasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle, comforting squeeze. "You have done well, Berenger," he said quietly, seeking to reassure the boy, "and you shall always have haven here."

"Uncle, may I go with you? I can help..."

"No." Grissom shook his head sharply. "I do not mean to seem unkind, Berenger, but your inexperience will slow us down. Sandre has been to battle with me and knows what is expected of him."

Berenger nodded, reluctantly accepting the truth of his uncle's words.

Grissom looked his nephew in the eye, his voice once again taking on the tone of cold steel. "I will most likely have to fight Tarek. I will kill him if necessary, Berenger. I do not want you to watch your father die."

_**For a slow dance in a blue blue moon**_

_**A slow dance as the river runs**_

_**One chance came none to soon**_

_**For a slow dance in a blue blue moon******_

* The Stations of the Cross or the Way of the Cross. Refers to the final hours (or Passion) of Jesus and the devotion commemorating the Passion. There are traditionally fourteen stations, beginning with Jesus being sentenced to death and ending with Jesus being laid in the tomb and covered with incense.

** Christian church within the walled Old City of Jerusalem. The church has been an important site for Christian pilgrims since the fourth century as it is the purported site of the death and resurrection of Jesus.

*** A garden at the foot of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem where Jesus prayed with his disciples the night before his crucifixion. In Orthodox tradition, the Garden of Gethsemane is where the Apostles buried the Virgin Mary.

**** "Slow Dance". Words and Music by John Stewart. _Bandera_ (Folk Era, FE1436D, 1997)


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

_**In Chicago the wind blows cold on the skin**_

_**Of school girls waiting for a sign**_

_**Someday the fun, the California sun**_

_**Will call from the end of the long yellow line**_

"Grissom will come for me, you cowardly bastard. And when he does, he will run you through with nary a second thought of soiling his blade with your filthy, yellow-tainted blood."

Sara spoke with a deadly calm that belied the panic filling her heart. She was bound hand and foot to a musty bed in a dusty room in a curiously empty and isolated inn. A single candle perched atop the mantle did little to chase away the gloomy shadows in the sparsely furnished stone room. No fire had been laid and the chill from the raging storm without slipped through chinks in the wall's aging mortar. A single jagged flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the small chamber and Sara gazed upon the crazed face of her captor with a growing sense of terror and helplessness.

"_**I**_ am Grissom! I am the _**ONLY**_ Grissom!" Tarek roared over the howling wind from a darkened corner near the cold fireplace. "That one you beseech to save you is nothing more than a vile pretender bearing that name by an accident of birth," he spat. "Had I but had my way he would have been dead and gone long before he reached his fifth year, drowned in a trough like all other worthless and unwanted mongrels threatening to defile a champion line."

His voice softened as he approached the bed. Sara tried to twist away as he ran a single finger down her cheek and laughed softly. "I am counting on him coming, you haughty, spoiled bitch. You are nothing more than a tasty morsel of bait to ensnare him. I have written this whole sordid little play just for the two of you."

"Yes, Princess," Tarek sneered, moving away from the bed to pace about in the tiny room. "Gil will come and when he does I shall chain him to the door and take my time with him. You will watch, helpless, while I strip his flesh inch by insolent inch." He turned abruptly and stalked back to her side, his rancid breath fanning across her terrified features. "Yes, Princess, I _**am**_ going to kill him, and I shall enjoy every moment of his pain and suffering. And would you like to know what will make it even more satisfying?" He gave her no chance to respond, running his question directly into the answer without pausing. "There is not a damn thing you can do to help him."

_**And she calls on her friends and a few someday men**_

_**She is going for a ride**_

_**Illinois rain will never be the same**_

_**For Jenny is getting out alive**_

Sara's blood ran cold at the madness in his voice. "Why do you hate him so? What injury has he done to cause you to harbor such hatred for him?"

"Let me tell you a little story, my dear Sara, and reveal to you a dark family secret. I am not truly the first-born," he whispered loudly, a falsely conspiratorial tone to his hiss. Tarek saw Sara's eyebrows rise in curiosity and laughed a little at her surprise. "There was a son before me, Sarus was his name. Oh how my parents loved and doted upon him. But sadly, Sarus was a sickly babe and died of a fever before he reached his first birthday. My parents, from what I understand, were inconsolable." His words were accompanied by an overly dramatic sigh that made mockery of his parents' sorrow.

Tarek pulled a rickety wooden chair from one of the corners of the room and placed it beside the bed. Sara tried to scoot farther to the far side of the bed, away from him, but the rawhide laces held her fast. She had no choice but to lay in apparent submission while he eased himself into the chair. Tarek squirmed against the wooden seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. Several minutes passed, the chair groaning in protest, until he finally seemed satisfied and resumed his tale.

"I came along two years after poor Sarus died and became the sole focus of my parents' lives. Father often said that my birth returned the light to my mother's eyes," he remembered fondly. A soft light glowed in his eyes as he remembered what for him, Sara was certain, were idyllic times. "I but had to point and anything I wished became mine. I was pampered and petted and loved beyond measure. When time came for me to be sent away to serve as a page Mother could not bear to let me go." Shrugging his shoulders, he chuckled slightly to himself and shook his head. "Father simply paid one of the serfs that farmed the land for him to send his eldest son in my stead. It was all so very easy."

Sara watched her captor carefully, hoping to gain some insight into his moods. She was not ready to give up, for she knew somehow, deep inside, that Grissom was on his way. Her only chance for survival, the only hope she had to gain some sort of advantage for both herself and her knight was to keep Tarek talking. He was growing more and more absorbed by his own narrative and she felt that if she could prod him along, encourage him to continue, Grissom might be able to turn the tables and launch a surprise attack of his own.

"That serf should have paid my father instead of my father paying him, you know." The casual comment was laced with derision. "That common, brainless child received an amazing gift…the chance to rise above his lowly station in life. They never thanked us for that. Instead of honoring my father for offering their son a better life, those ungrateful wretches chose to blame him when their hapless son was killed in a joust, daring to suggest that it should have been me."

The underlying outrage in Tarek's tone caused Sara to cringe. She worried that he was working himself into a rage once again and nearly breathed a sigh of relief when he continued in a blithe manner. "Oh, well," he said, waving a hand in dismissal. "It matters not. My life remained gloriously perfect despite those unwarranted accusations."

Tarek's face suddenly darkened, his brows lowering and his thin upper lip curling into a sneer. "And then Gil came along late the following summer," he spat, "and everything changed."

_**Jenny at the wheel, she looks hard for the way**_

_**Oh, to the land of the sun**_

_**Jenny at the wheel and the far distant star**_

_**That, oh, she believes is the one**_

A blinding flare of lightening illuminated Tarek's face. The answering explosion of thunder seemed to Sara to herald the return of his darker mood. The howling wind and driving rain battered the lone window and the candle lighting her makeshift prison cell flickered bravely against the onslaught. Her captor leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the bed next to her thighs as he sank deeper into thought. When he finally spoke, Sara nearly jumped in response to the ill-concealed venom in his tone.

"Gil was as different from me as the night is from the day. He had a bright mop of golden ringlets atop his head and was of fairer complexion." Despite the gravity or her predicament, Sara could not help the small, wistful smile that touched her face at Tarek's description of his younger brother. She could nearly see the curly-headed sturdy, stocky lad toddling along after his father or older brother. "My father often said," Tarek continued, pulling Sara's mind back from her fanciful musings, "that we were the light and the dark and together completed the endless cycle of spinning time. We were opposites, he said, but that we would each complement the other with our differing weaknesses and strengths."

Rapidly lowering his feet to the floor with a resounding thud, Tarek rose from his chair and began pacing again, his strides choppy and agitated. "All at once my parents' attention was pulled from me and I was forced to share everything with my younger brother. It was not fair. You see, I had always been told that I was the chosen one, a special gift from God and suddenly I had to fight for attention."

"'Not now, Tarek, Gil needs to eat.' 'You must be quiet, Tarek, Gil is napping.'" Sara nearly laughed aloud as Tarek's voice slipped into a high-pitched falsetto and his hands fluttered about in an exaggerated imitation of his mother.

He stopped suddenly and glared at her, as if she was somehow to blame for the events replaying themselves in his mind. "It did not help matters that at a young age my little brother showed a keen intelligence and soon surpassed me in horsemanship and other physical games. You see, Gil was a natural and everything came easily to him. His strengths soon surpassed mine and I was viewed as a fragile lad, a weakling. I felt my Father's attention shifting away from me as he spent more and more time with Gil. And I did not like it, not one bit." His voice had turned dangerous, as dark and deadly as the storm raging outside. Sara shuddered, the fear rising steadily in her throat.

Tarek resumed his frantic pacing, grinding his right fist into the open palm of his left hand as he grew more agitated by the memories he was recounting. "Many times I tried to do Gil harm, to maim or even cripple him, to knock him down a peg and even the plain." Tarek's eyes grew distant and his tone soft and wondering. "Gil never fought back. I could pummel him, knock him down, it did not matter. He simply got up, brushed himself off and kept going. He never, ever tried to fight back."

He stopped, standing before the window to stare blindly at the driving rain. Sara knew she had to keep him talking, had to give Grissom time to find her. She had tested her bonds and the rawhide laces binding her to the bed were far too tight for her to break. Without Grissom, she knew she would never be able to escape whatever it was that Tarek had planned for her.

"Anyway," Tarek continued, shaking his head to pull him from his reverie, "one day Father caught me trying to drown my beloved baby brother in the horse trough. 'Tis a shame he stopped me. It would have saved me much grief. Shortly thereafter, Gil was sent to Saint Benet's and never again returned home. I can only assume that my parents finally realized they had begat a mongrel and were therefore forced to banish him to preserve the sanctity of the family line."

"I thought that was the end of him, for well and truly it seemed he had died. No further mention was made with regard to him and I was finally rid of him for good. But not all was well. My mother became even more protective after that. As far as she was concerned, two sons were now dead to her and I once again received that full measure of her attention which was my due."

He grew pensive again and Sara was starting to get dizzy trying to keep up with his abrupt changes of mood. She was trying desperately to maintain her wits but the sheer terror of her captivity was threatening to overwhelm her. It was getting more and more difficult for her to think and fully concentrate on Tarek's tale.

"When I stood poised on the brink of manhood, ready to go out and make my mark upon the world, King Radulfus came to call unexpectedly. There was nothing to herald his arrival, no time to properly prepare for his visit. Prince James, you see, was in need of a mentor, someone to guide him. King Radulfus thought me to be the perfect companion as I was a bit older and properly educated in the art of being a gentleman. Again, my mother refused. I begged and pleaded with her to allow me to go but she stood firm.

Tarek leaned his forehead against the shuddering glass and drummed his fingers absently on the windowpane. When he continued, his voice was flat. "Father was apparently desperate to retain the King's favor and managed to strike a bargain. Despite the fact that my worthless brother knew next to nothing about the ways of the Court and society, Father was able to convince Radulfus that Gil would be a good companion for the Prince; that the structure and rigidity of his monastic upbringing would help subdue the more impetuous and wild side of James' nature." Tarek breathed a heavy sigh. "You know the rest, Princess. Gil was removed from the monastery and sent to serve your father instead of me."

"How I envied him that stroke of fortune," he said, turning abruptly from the window to resume his frantic pacing, his voice growing louder with every pass across the small room. "I would have given anything to be so close to the crown, to have that power. Had I been but permitted, I would no doubt be king by now." Tarek whirled and pinned Sara with an icy emerald glare in response to her horrified gasp. "Yes, my dear. I would have happily murdered your father and convinced the grieving King Radulfus to name me as his sole heir."

But no," he raged, the mad gleam in his eyes glowing brighter, "I remained at home, safely ensconced in our keep. There were so many times I wanted to harm my mother, so many times I pictured myself placing my hands about her scrawny neck and squeezing the life out of her for denying me this opportunity. I could do little more than sit by and bitterly eat my heart out with gut-churning jealousy as I watched my simpleton brother grow in fame and stature."

_**New Mexico fell in an adobe motel**_

_**With JC working on her car**_

_**And she fell for his line she has heard many times**_

_**From boys about to go to far**_

"I nearly got rid of him, you know...twice, to be exact," Tarek said in a conversational tone. "Once, shortly after his dubben, I caused Gil to be exiled. He laughed cruelly at Sara's startled expression. "Oh, he did not tell you, Princess?" he asked with a contemptuous sneer. "I cannot imagine why neither he nor your father have ever spoken of this matter. It is such a glorious tale; one I am quite proud of for the planning was a stroke of sheer genius on my part."

Tarek sighed then, a weary exhalation as if the recounting of his deeds was as strenuous as enacting them. "Twas a shame that your father did not have him beheaded or that he was not killed during the Third Crusade. Either of those blessed outcomes would have saved me much aggravation. As it was, I was forced to pay another a handsome sum of gold to try to murder him while away on his latest adventure."

"It matters not, for my mind is settled," he stated decisively. "If I want things done properly and wish to rid myself of him once and for all, I shall have to kill the bastard myself. There is no other way."

Tarek brought the full measure of his attention back to his helpless prisoner, enjoying the way she sought to avoid his stare. He addressed her in an almost casual, friendly tone, as if they were discussing the evening fare instead of his deep-seated hatred for his younger brother.

"So you see, Princess, had Gil not been born, none of that would have happened. I would not have been forced to share and would not have had to take such drastic action to remove that blight from my world. It is all really very simple." Tarek returned to Sara's side and ran a narrow finger down her cheek again and over her tightly pursed lips. She was unable to withhold the shudder that shook her slight frame, nor mask the look of revulsion that momentarily replaced the fear in her eyes. Tarek just smiled at her, his hand moving to play with a strand of her unbound hair. "He took from me things that were rightfully mine. I have been made to suffer merely from his God-forsaken presence from the moment he was born."

"Yes, I hate him." His face was deeply etched fury as he choked out his loathing in Sara's ear, the tenor and volume of his voice rising with every word. "I hate him with a passion you can never hope to fathom. I will not rest until I see him dead and buried. He has always been thought to be the better of the two of us and I am going to prove once and for all that I am far superior, a greater man than he could ever have hoped to be."

_**She is driving again with no money to spend**_

_**And a card that shows her daddy's name**_

_**She believes any day that they'll show her the way**_

_**To the bright blazing sun of the Playa Del Rey**_

A terrible quiet descended upon the small room following Tarek's thunderous rant. He had returned to his seat beside the bed and slumped wearily as if drained from all that he had revealed. Sara kept a watchful eye on him as she lay quietly and listened to the hammering rain. His eyes were closed and Sara studied him openly as she turned over all that he had said.

"That is it?" Sara asked, unable to curb her tongue or hide her disbelief. Tarek cracked open a single eye in lazy regard. "You despise him simply because he is your brother?"

"It is reason enough, my dear," he replied smoothly, rising to his feet and kicking the chair away from the bed. "I do not share and I will have no other trying to take what is rightfully mine." Tarek walked to the hearth of the cold fireplace and began to unbuckle his belt. "All that Gil has done, all the fame and glory and wealth he has amassed in his life thus far should be mine. I am the eldest, the first-born. All that he has will be mine very soon, including you." Sara's eyes widened in sheer terror as the full implication of Tarek's words sank in.

He flashed a cruel smile, his white teeth glinting against the gloom as he set his heavy belt aside and sauntered leisurely back to the bed. "You are nothing but bait, Princess, a way to lure him here. I have seen the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. I am going to punish him by hurting you." He barked a harsh laugh as Sara struggled against her restraints, trying vainly to avoid the hand that had slowly started running up and down her arm.

"Oh yes, I will make him suffer far more than he has ever known and then I am going to kill him." Tarek paused, his gaze boring into Sara's. "You see, my fair Princess, I am going to take the only thing he holds dear and destroy it before his very eyes."

Sara struggled to swallow around the hard knot of horror in her throat, trying to quell the overwhelming panic rising and burning like acid from the depths of her stomach. She knew, in that single moment, as blinding and revealing as the bright lightning flashing outside the window, that Tarek meant all that he said. He was going to rape her before Grissom's very eyes and then he would kill Gil before murdering her as well.

A harsh chuckle returned her attention to the man watching her from the foot of the bed. She had one move left upon the board, one last threat to hurl at her captor. Drawing a calming breath to cover the tremor in her voice, she tossed her final die in hopes of breaking through his madness and reasoning with him.

"Even if you should somehow prevail and manage to kill Grissom," she began in a flat, emotionless voice, "my father will hunt you down like the black-hearted devil that you are. You will never have a moment's rest. You will always be looking over your shoulder. You will be branded as a murder and a rapist and live out your days hiding in caves and burrows. He'll not rest until your head rolls off the block."

"That will never happen," he said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

"You don't believe my father will scour every nook and cranny of this land to find you?" she asked with an arch of her eyebrow.

"I have no doubt that he will release his hounds of hell upon me. But he will never catch me. I will never give you or Gil or even the King that kind of satisfaction and power over me." He caught her eyes with his own, piercing jade holding shrinking russet, and purposefully began unwinding his cross garters. "Once I regain all that Gil has stolen from me, I will flee. And should your father's knaves be clever enough to find me, I will simply take my own life. But I will rob him, and you, of your vengeance and go to my grave knowing that I have won."

"You are a coward," she whispered. "You are nothing but a grand gutless caitiff."

_**Jenny at the wheel, she looks hard for the way**_

_**Oh, to the land of the sun**_

_**Jenny at the wheel and the far distant star**_

_**That, oh, she believes is the one**_

"You are mad and you are a great spineless goat." Sara's voice started as a soft taunt but rose steadily in volume as she released everything that she was feeling. All of the anger and the fear, the sickening dread and sinking hope, came bursting forth in venomous gasping blasts of contempt. "You are but a weakling milksop and a hopeless poser. Everything that has transpired you have brought upon yourself. You set the wheel in motion. He but made the best of all that you heaped upon him. You can never hope to equal him even should you live five hundred years."

Tarek's eyes flashed and his long fingers curled tightly into fists. Sara watched his sallow complexion darken with fury but could not stop. Her words were the only weapon she had at her disposal and she refused to let Tarek win, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower and beg for mercy. Surrender was not an option. She was going to fight him tooth and nail to the bitter end.

"The only dubben you can ever hope to attain is that of carpet knight. You lack the courage to brandish your sword in any place other than the bed chamber and from what I hear you lack skill and grace with your puny dagger there as well!"

Tarek's furious roar echoed in her head, her ears ringing with the force of the blow as his fist crashed against her face in a potent surge of anger. Sara choked back the cry clogging her throat, closing her eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to fall. Her cheek throbbed in hot achy pulses that matched the frantic beating of her heart. "I am not a pretender, you high and mighty bitch," Tarek seethed, his hand poised for another blow, "and I am no one's fool."

He shook himself, fighting to calm his murderous rage. Sara's eyes cracked open in time to see him lower his fist to his side. She drew a shuddering breath as Tarek's voice softened and sliced her with its icy madness. "Oh, Gil tried to make sport of me and shame me before my peers. I can still hear the laughter ringing in my ears." His gaze turned as frosty as his tone. "That is a crime for which I cannot forgive him. I shall have the last laugh."

"You shamed yourself, you braying ass." Sara's bravado, while forced, carried enough heat to set her tormentor back on his heels. "You first sent your hapless son to challenge him and then had no choice but to try to save face by fighting him yourself. I'm not sure he even broke a sweat in his effort with you. It could not have lasted more than a minute or two." She smiled coldly, her words as sharp and piercing as a thrust of a finely honed sword. Bracing herself for the abuse she knew would follow, Sara allowed her loathing of Tarek to flow into the simple honesty of her words.

"You will never be the man that he is and should have never tried to best him. He is far superior in every way and you will never win."

The open handed blow split her lip and Sara tasted blood against her tongue. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked cruelly, forcing her attention upon him. She gasped against the harsh pull and, gathering her flagging courage, spit at him; her disdainful, wordless response spattering his twisted features with a mixture of blood and saliva.

Tarek grasped the high neckline of her dress just above her collarbones. Wrenching both of hands in a swift downward jerk, he savagely parted her gown and bodice to the waist. He licked his lips, lust momentarily supplanting his anger as her bosom spilled forth from the shredded fabric. Sara bit her tongue in an effort not to cry out as his claw-like fingers encased her right breast in a brutal, constricting grip. He viciously increased the pressure, using his free hand to unhook the upper garters that held his chausses to his braises.

"Say my name, Princess," he snarled, his tone low and ruthless. "Say my name like you love me, like you want me and I will try to be gentle"

Sara tried to shrink away from his ruthless fondling but the rawhide laces held her fast. She knew he would take her in the most barbaric way he could regardless of whether or not she spoke his name as he commanded. She heaved a gasping breath against the burning agony coursing through her body and whispered a single, hopeful syllable."

"Gil..."

"SAY MY NAME!" he thundered, his voice matching the pitch and intensity of the storm raging outside. His wrapped his hands tightly around her neck, squeezing dangerously as his chausses and braises slid to the cold stone floor. His bared his teeth with a malevolent hiss, spitting his fury in her face. "Say my name you worthless whore. SAY MY NAME!"

"GRIS!"

_**Jenny at the wheel, she looks hard for the way**_

_**Oh, to the land of the sun**_

_**Jenny at the wheel and the far distant star**_

_**That, yeah, she believes is the one**__**1**_

1 "Jenny at the Wheel." Words and Music by John Stewart. (_The Secret Tapes '86_ - Homecoming, 450, 1986)


	9. Chapter Eight

Author's Notes: One again, an extra-special shout out to my very special ladies, Smacky30 and Cincoflex. You both are truly wonderful and I very much appreciate all of your hard work and help.

**Chapter Eight**

_**The dogs now are on the streets of home**_

_**There's a wind upon the land.**_

_**If you can dream of highway signs,**_

_**Then you know what is at hand.**_

Grissom and Sandre rode headlong into the driving rain towards the small inn Berenger had named. Sandre was buried tightly within the folds of his heavy woolen cloak, his hands occupied with the reins of his own horse and an extra mount they had brought along for Sara. Grissom remained uncovered, his own cloaked tucked safely in one of the packs Myria had prepared. The only precaution he had taken against the wicked storm was to wrap his leather scabbard in a tight bundling of wool in an effort to keep his weapon as dry as possible.

As he rode, oblivious to the cold and rain, he tried to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle his nephew had given him. The fact that Tarek had attempted something so bold was not a huge surprise; he expected his brother to seek some form of vengeance after the tournament. But the fact that Tarek had chosen Sara as the bait disturbed him deeply. His brother was a cruel man, and if he had taken Sara, he was a desperate man as well. Grissom would not allow himself to contemplate just what torture Tarek might choose to enact upon Sara. He needed to keep his wits about him; conjuring up images of Sara's possible fate would only cloud his judgment and hinder his efforts to save her. He viciously shoved his emotions deep into the darkest recesses of his mind and returned his thoughts to figuring out his brother's plans.

Sofia was a complication he never considered. He had not been shocked to learn that she had taken a lover; her marriage to James had been troubled from the moment they took their vows. That she had taken Tarek into her bed, and was now assisting in his bid for revenge was extremely troubling. Grissom could not imagine Sofia seeking out Tarek as either a lover or an ally. Tarek must have come to her. He must have persuaded her somehow that she had something to gain from all of this. But why? And why involve Sara?

Briefly glancing over his shoulder to assure that all was well with Sandre, Grissom returned to his musings, still pondering what role Sofia had played in all of this. For if Sofia was involved, there was no doubt in his mind that Nikolai and Varrick were somehow mixed up in all of this as well. Nikolai was Sofia's son from her first marriage, a marriage that ended when her husband, Prince Johann of Bavaria, died in battle. Nik, by virtue of his mother's marriage to James, bore the royal title of prince but was not heir to the throne. That distinction belonged to Sara or a male child of James, should he sire one before he died.

Varrick was Nik's constant companion and partner in crime. The two had been raised together, first in Bavaria and later in England, and both were very capable knights, serving as leaders in the Household Guard. Like many young men their age, they were far more interested in wenching and drinking than duty, and were more inclined to follow orders rather than give them. Nik had no ambition to wear the crown and only used his princely title to gain a comely maiden to share his bed.

Grissom found it difficult to believe that, after all these years, Nik suddenly aspired to take the throne for his own. Maybe that is what Tarek had promised Sofia and why she had taken up with him. Perhaps they also planned on murdering James. With Sara out of the way, Tarek could divorce or otherwise rid himself of Kennera, marry Sofia and name Nik as his heir.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and gather his bearings. Straining to see through the fog, he could finally make out the outline of the inn. He motioned for Sandre to follow him, and when he reached the front of the dilapidated structure, dismounted and tossed his reins to the lad. After muttering a few terse words to his squire, Grissom wiped the rain from his eyes and unraveled the sodden woolen covering from his scabbard before hurrying up the wooden steps and crossing the rickety porch toward the door. Sandre grabbed the reins of all three horses and hastily made his way to the adjoining stable.

_**When the one brave angel flies at dawn**_

_**Would you even know his name?**_

_**Who will stand upon the shore?**_

_**The keeper of the flame.**_

"**GIL…"**

Grissom barreled into the inn, his heart freezing in his chest as he heard Sara's gut-wrenching scream coming from somewhere on the floor above him. He took the steps two at a time, no longer concerned about stealth or surprise, and raced down the long hallway until he found the closed portal keeping Sara from him. He could hear her terrified cries and Tarek's vicious snarls as he tried in vain to wrench the lock free. Backing up as far as the narrow hall will allow he drew a calming breath and threw himself against the door.

He crashed through the heavy oaken portal, taking just a moment to marvel at the destruction he had wrought. Larger planks and sharply fragmented slivers of wood lay scattered about the floor. Grissom's eyes narrowed and his vision took on a red haze as he saw Tarek fumbling between Sara's naked thighs. Tarek had her pinned beneath his wiry frame, one hand wrapped around his engorged cock while the other ruthlessly probed and clawed at her tender flesh.

"**GRIS!" **

A primal roar of pure fury exploded from Grissom's throat as he rushed forward. He grabbed Tarek by the neck of his soiled tunic and hurled him across the room to crash against the wall and slide to the floor in a crumpled heap. Watching to make sure that his brother would not be rising soon, he turned his gaze back to the bed.

Grissom's heart broke at the sight of Sara lying listless on the filthy mattress; her body defiled and ravaged. Her lower lip was split and bleeding and a large bruise darkened her left cheekbone. The porcelain column of her graceful neck bore the harsh patterns of Tarek's cruelty, mottled red hand prints glowing in sharp contrast against the creamy skin. Grissom shook with rage; his hands clenched tightly into fists, as his eyes moved lower and observed the deep purple imprint of Tarek's teeth upon Sara's right breast.

Drawing a heavy, calming breath, Gil slowly reached over and pulled the skirt of Sara's gown back down into place. A swift slice from the dagger he had pulled from a sheath on his belt made quick work of the rawhide strips. Grissom gently rubbed Sara's arms as he eased them down to rest at her sides. He murmured her name as he ran a hand down her cheek, taking care to avoid the nasty-looking bruise. Sara finally opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. Her arms rose from the bed, clenching around his neck tightly in a desperate embrace as her tears finally began to flow.

"Gris," she rasped between sobs. "You came for me. I knew you would save me"

"Of course I did," he responded quietly, his gentle voice soothing her as he rocked her softly against his solid chest. He dropped a light kiss on the crown of her head before pulling back slightly to look her in the eye. "I could trust no other. There is nothing that could ever keep me from you."

_**Shots rang out and the rains came down**_

_**Then the hopeless hit the floor**_

_**There was one great shout across the land**_

_**I don't need this anymore**_

Grissom reluctantly withdrew from the embrace. He helped Sara sit back against the head board of the bed and wordlessly enfolded her within a musty, moth-eaten blanket to conceal her torn clothing. Unable to resist, he lovingly wiped her tears and pressed a kiss on her cheek before pulling back once again. Gil grasped her hand, swiftly grazing his lips over her knuckles before turning her hand and pressing the dagger he had used to slice her bonds in her palm. The knight tightened her fingers around the slender handle and spoke, his voice still hushed but growing as steely as his sword with every word.

"Here," he said, giving her hand a final gentle squeeze. "If anyone other than Sandre or I come near you, gut them." Once Sara nodded her head in agreement, Grissom rose from the bed and returned his attention to his brother.

Tarek was just struggling to rise to his feet, tugging and yanking his tunic back in place to hide his flagging erection, and trying to breathe normally following his graceless flight across the room. The impact with the unforgiving stone wall had forced all the air from his lungs and Tarek grimaced as he reached beneath his tunic to re-knot the cords of his braies. Seeking to catch his brother unaware, he sprang from his corner, grabbed a portion of the shattered door at swung wildly at Grissom's head. The knight casually sidestepped to avoid the ill-aimed blow and watched Tarek warily, taking care to keep himself between his older brother and Sara.

"This is it, baby brother," Tarek sneered, still wheezing a bit as his hands fumbled through a pile of clothing near the hearth. He finally managed to locate his heavy leather belt and draw his sword from its gold-leafed sheath. Gil fought to swallow an amused chuckle at the sight of Tarek's showy blade. As with everything the elder Grissom owned, his sword was newly forged and obviously designed more for show than for actual combat. The pommel was ornately decorated with the family crest and the guards festooned with numerous gilded curves and finely-wrought filigrees. Gil knew that such egotistical adornments would only serve to throw off the weight and balance of the entire weapon, rendering it all but worthless in actual combat. This, coupled with Tarek's overall lack of experience in actual sword play, gave the younger Grissom a distinct advantage.

Seeing Grissom eye his overly pretentious sword, Tarek mistook Gil's sardonic smirk for one of envy. "Do you like it?" he said, turning it over and over slowly to allow his brother a better view. "I had it made just for you. I shall stain this noble blade with your worthless blood and once and for all this matter will be settled. All of England will finally know which of us is the better man, which of us is the true Grissom. Yes," he hissed, advancing towards Gil as he spoke, "I shall take great pleasure in proving that I always have been and always will be far superior to you."

Grissom made no attempt to reply to his brother's taunting, merely regarding him with a stony stare as he waited for Tarek to make his move. As expected, the elder Grissom broke first, lunging towards Gil with a clumsy thrust that was easily turned aside with a quick roll of the knight's thick forearm. A flurry of thrusts and parries followed, the combatants moving about the room in a deadly waltz, measuring each other, seeking an advantage. Tarek had taken to offensive immediately, his attack careless and haphazard. Grissom was content to merely counter his blows and let his brother wear himself down while looking for an opening to cleanly drive his blade home and keep himself positioned between Tarek and Sara.

Sara rolled off the bed and cowered in a corner of the room, her knees tucked beneath her chin and the blanket wrapped tightly about her to cover her nudity. She gripped the dagger securely and watched the duel before her with wide, terrified eyes. Tarek's face reflected his intense loathing for his younger brother while Gil's gaze was clam and flat, his eyes completely lifeless and...cold. Sara had never seen that look on Grissom's face before and knew then and there Tarek was a dead man. Only one brother would survive this battle, only one Grissom would remain standing when the dust finally cleared.

The blue frost in Gil's eyes reminded her of the stories passed down from the Venerable Bede of the great basilisk, that strange creature hatched by a cockatrice that could kill any living being with just a look. Sara shuddered, suddenly understanding why the Black Monk was such a feared warrior.

Out of concern for Sara's welfare and to provide Sandre a chance to help her escape the inn, Grissom allowed Tarek to back him out the door into the hallway. Varrick rushed from another chamber, pulling his tunic on with one hand while brandishing his sword with the other. He took a quick look around and yelled at Nikolai to leave his wench and join him in the hall. Nik appeared a moment later charging through the door, his sword drawn and ready for battle. He skidded to an abrupt stop, gaping in amazement at the battle unfolding between Grissom and Tarek.

"What in God's name is going on?" Nikolai yelled, his handsome brow furrowed in confusion. "Grissom is not supposed to be here. Where are the squires?"

Tarek continued to attack Grissom recklessly, hurling taunts. "You think yourself so great, young brother. I know that the icy Sofia was to have been your betrothed. And I have had her while you have not. I have lain between her thighs and made her scream my name while I had my way with her. Can you say the same? Have you bedded the cold, icy bitch?"

Nikolai staggered backwards a step, the blood draining from his face as Tarek's words hit him full force. Varrick grabbed his arm to steady him and hold him back when Nikolai would have rushed forward. "No, Nik, this is no longer our fight. Tarek lied to us. Stay out of it and let Grissom deal with his brother. He doesn't need your help."

"I took your lovely Sara as well," Tarek goaded, trying to rattle his brother and somehow gain some small advantage over him, "and branded her as my own. Did you see the mark I left upon her teat?" He cackled with undisguised glee in response to the enraged growl, primal and chilling, that escaped from Grissom's throat. "Shall I tell you how much she desired me? How she pleaded with me to take her maidenhead?

"Tis a pity you barged in before I could complete the task but no matter. Once I have disposed of you I shall take her over and over at my leisure."

_**And if one brave angel flies at dawn**_

_**Would you even know his name?**_

_**Who will stand upon the shore?**_

_**The keeper of the flame.**_

Sandre was hidden in the shadow of the stairs, watching for an opportunity to slip past the warring brothers and lead Sara to safety as Grissom had instructed. Tarek's mad screech had caused his blood to run cold. Seeing Nikolai and Varrick standing idle as if trying to decide what to do, Sandre saw his opportunity. Hugging tightly to the stone wall, he sprinted madly up the stairs and dashed into the room where Sara had been imprisoned.

Varrick saw Sandre dart into the darkened chamber and hurried after the lad to see if he needed any assistance. Sara was hiding behind the ruins of the door and remained in the shadows even after Sandre had scuttled into the room. When she saw Varrick pass through the damaged doorway, she leapt upon his back with all the coiled fury of a hell cat and slammed the dagger deep into his shoulder. Varrick howled in pain, dropped his weapon and threw Sara from his back.

Sandre scooped up the discarded sword with one hand and brandished a shattered stave from the ruined door with the other. He thrust the jagged wooden plank towards the defenseless knight and caught him full in the abdomen. Varrick doubled over, his arms crossing over his stomach, his breath forced from his lungs in a mighty puff. Sandre sensed his advantage and attacked again, arcing downward with all of his might. The improvised cudgel splintered against the back of Varrick's head with a sickly thunking crunch and the knight slumped heavily to the floor.

"Did you kill him?" Sara asked in a shaky voice as she rose from the floor, still brandishing the dagger.

"I don't know," Sandre yelled over his shoulder and he moved to the bed and hurriedly began knotting the bedding and blankets together. "And we are not going to tarry long enough to find out." He secured one end of his make-shift ladder to the rickety bed, threw open the lone window and tossed out the other end. Dropping Varrick's sword to the ground as well, he turned to address Sara. "Come, Princess. This is how we must leave."

Sara warily approached the window and allowed Sandre to carefully lower her to the ground. Sandre scampered down after, pulled the sword from a puddle and took hold of Sara's hand, all but dragging her through the storm to the stable and the waiting mounts.

"Gris?" Sara's chattering teeth made it difficult for her to speak.

"He'll be fine, Milady," Sandre replied as they hastened around the inn to the stable. "He's the Black Monk. Please hurry. We have no time."

"No, Sandre, you do not understand." Sara was growing more and more agitated, her hold on her emotions quickly spinning away towards hysteria. The horror of her captivity and fear for Grissom's safety were crashing down and threatening to overwhelm her.

She pulled hard on Sandre's hand to get him to stop as they stumbled into the shelter of the stable. "Tarek swore that he would kill him. You must go back and help him."

Sandre laughed. "Princess, I promise you that Grissom will be fine. He knows how to handle himself in a fight even if he seems to be vastly outnumbered. He does not need any assistance from me. Truth be told, my inexperience would only be a hindrance."

Pausing as he rummaged in a pack on one of the horses backs, he withdrew a hooded cloak and handed it to her. Sandre spoke softly to her in an effort to soothe and reassure as she dropped the ratty blanket and huddled within the warm, dry cloak.

"Milady, I am doing exactly what he told me to do." His voice softened as he looked into her terrified eyes. He took a bold risk, speaking to her as a friend, not a Princess. "Sara, as long as Grissom believes you to be safe, that burden is lifted from his mind. He is able to devote all his skills and concentration to defeating those who did this to you."

_**Freedom is an endless word**_

_**We are always wanting more**_

_**There are heroes in the holy hearts**_

_**And they fight the holy wars.**_

Tarek risked a hurried glance over his shoulder to see what was keeping his two accomplices from joining in the attack. He knew he was tiring while his brother had yet to truly exert himself. He saw Nikolai merely watching, a look of pure loathing on his face. Tarek swore heartily at the younger man. "Help me you gaping coward," he screamed. "Kill him."

Nikolai shook his head in disgust. "You are on your own, Milord. You set up this farce; you see it through to the end. I wash my hands of you."

Those simple words, layered thickly with contempt and revulsion, brought the full measure of his deceit home to Tarek for perhaps the first time in his life. He knew now he would receive no assistance from either of the two knights he had betrayed, and he realized with growing dread, there was no way he could ever defeat his brother. Seeing no other alternative, he threw himself at Grissom, the force and surprise of his sudden desperate move caught the younger man off-guard. Grissom lost his balance and stepped backwards into space, hovering for just a moment before the two thudded heavily down the stairs in a jumbled heap.

Nik rushed to the low railing and looked down into the dining hall below. Tarek lay atop Grissom; neither man was moving. A low grunt sounded from one and Nik could see legs moving beneath the tangled pile. Tarek abruptly rolled off of Grissom, and Nik closed his eyes at the sight of the Black Monk's sword embedded deeply in the center of Tarek's chest.

Grissom was panting heavily as he struggled painfully to his feet and, after a brief glance back up the stairs towards Nikolai to ensure the younger knight posed no threat, stared solemnly at the corpse of his only brother. He dropped stiffly to one knee, a grimace of sorrow crossing his worn features, and bowed his head. Reaching out his left hand to gently close his brother's eyes, he crossed himself with his right. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."1 Drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes, Grissom began to pray. "Et revertatur pulvis in terram suam unde erat," he intoned quietly, "et spiritus redeat ad Deum, qui dedil illum."2 He enfolded Tarek's limp hand within the warm strength of his own. "In sudore vuitus tui vesceris pane, donec revertaris in terram de qua sumptus es: qui pulvis es et in pulveram revertis."3

He floundered a bit after reciting his standard battlefield prayer, obviously compelled to say more over the battered body of his only brother than he would a fallen comrade; a brother he loved despite the fact that Tarek had borne him nothing but hatred his entire life. Grissom's eyebrows creased in thought before he continued in a broken whisper laced with sorrow and regret. "Et multii de his qui dormiunt in terrae pulvere evigilabunt, alii in vitam aeternam, et alii in opprobrium ut videant semper. Qui aautem docti fuerint, fulgebunt quasi splendor fermamentii et qui justitatum erudiunt multos, quasi stellae in perpetuas aeternitates."4

Gently, almost tenderly, he freed his sword from Tarek's chest and then looked up at Nik, a challenge in the silent arch of his eyebrow.

"Nay, Grissom," Nik said as he descended the stairs and carefully surrendered his sword. "We did not know Tarek's true intent when we agreed to this." The Black Monk accepted the blade, laying it on Tarek's body before indicating that Nik should continue with his tale.

"Varrick and I were told that King James had chosen Tarek to lead a special training exercise for the squires. No one was supposed to get hurt, especially Sara." He paused and swallowed heavily, his question hesitant. "He raped and abused her?"

Grissom ignored Nik's question and fixed him with a harsh stare. "Did King James or the Captain of the Guard inform you of this exercise?"

"No," he replied, lowering his head and shaking it sadly. "It was my mother."

Grissom closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. He laid a compassionate hand upon the younger man's shoulder, trying to convey both his understanding and sympathy. Nik mirrored Grissom's gesture and the two knights shared a brief moment of combined sorrow before Grissom removed his hand and turned back to his lifeless brother.

Using a dagger Nik pulled from his belt, Grissom cut a length of cloth from the bottom of Tarek's tunic and used it to bind a deep bleeding wound running the length of his left thigh. He cut several more strips and bid Nik help him to bind the corpse hand and foot. After wiping his own sword clean and returning it to its scabbard, Grissom hefted Tarek's sword and grabbed the body by the bond at the ankles.

"Have I your vow and that of Varrick as well that you both will remain here until called for?"

"Aye, Grissom, we will stay."

Grissom nodded his acknowledgment of Nik's oath and hauled Tarek's body out into the rain, dragging his burden through the mud and the muck on his way to the stable to meet up with Sandre and Sara.

_**And the one brave angel flies at dawn**_

_**Would you even know his name?**_

_**Who will stand upon the shore?**_

_**The keeper of the flame.**_

"It is done?" Sandre asked anxiously as Grissom staggered through the door.

"It is done," Grissom confirmed, lugging the lifeless body through the door. He nodded towards the extra horse they had brought and looked back at his squire. "Help me get him loaded." Sandre helped Grissom toss the corpse across the mare's back and then hunkered down to lash the bonds securing Tarek's hands and feet together beneath the saddle cinch to hold the body secure.

Once Tarek was loaded, Sandre rummaged through the pack on the back of Grissom's charger, pulled out Grissom's cloak and handed it to him. Gil accepted the garment with a sharp nod of thanks and moved to tuck it about Sara's shivering form, taking great care to ensure that as much of her was protected from the elements as possible. Grissom carefully pulled Sara close, wrapping her in a gentle embrace and brushing a chaste kiss upon her forehead before swinging himself up into the saddle.

The knight reached down to help Sandre maneuver Sara up onto the horse and sideways across his lap. Once he had the bulk of her weight firmly situated on his right thigh, Grissom secured one arm about her waist and grasped the reins with the other.

He looked back down at Sandre and noticed the sword the young man grasped. Grissom couldn't help but grin slightly despite the gravity of the moment.

"You have claimed your first spoil of war?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.

Sandre flushed but stood proud. "The good knight Varrick grew careless and," he said, waving the sword about to point at Sara, "with the help of the Lady's careful placement of a dagger, I was able to gain an advantage over him."

Grissom's eyes widened and he leaned back, putting a little distance between himself and Sara and Sandre's reckless blade. "Does he live?" he asked, groping behind him into the pack to pull out a length or rope. He tossed the coil to his squire, indicating wordlessly that the lad should use it to secure the weapon.

"I don't know." Sandre shrugged indifferently, lashing the sword to his pack. "I was more concerned with seeing the Princess to safety than checking on the welfare of Sir Varrick."

"You have done well, Sandre, very well," Grissom said in a low, husky voice, squeezing the squire's shoulder tightly to convey the depth of his gratitude. "And you have won the sword fair and in honorable combat. It is yours to keep."

Grissom cleared his throat, his voice once again mild and void of emotion. "I need you to ride to the King and tell him that his daughter is safe and travels with me. We will take a different route to ensure that we are not followed. I do not know if any others are involved but I am unwilling to take chances. Present Tarek's corpse and sword to James so he may be assured the battle is won. You will also need to give him Nikolai's sword as proof that Nik and Varrick were involved."

Sandre nodded in understanding and mounted his own horse.

"Sandre?" Grissom arched a concerned eyebrow towards the lad. "Be swift, but be safe."

The Black Monk wheeled his charger and rode off, quickly disappearing into the rain and the fog. Sandre watched him leave. When he could no longer see his knight, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and turned towards the Royal Castle.

_**And the one brave angel flies at dawn**_

_**Would you even know her name?**_

_**Who will stand upon the shore?**_

_**The keeper of the flame.**__**5**_

1 "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

2 Ecclesiastes 12:7 "And the dust returneth into its earth, from whence it was, and the spirit return to God who gave it."

3 Genesis 3:19 "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return to the earth out of which thou wast taken: for dust thou art, and into dust thou shalt return."

4 Daniel 12: 2-3 (2) "And many of those that sleep in the dust of the earth, shall awake: some unto life everlasting, and others unto reproach, to see it always. (3) But they that are learned shall shine as the brightness of the firmament: and they that instruct many to justice, as stars for all eternity.

5 "Keeper of the Flame." Words and Music by John Stewart. (Bandera - Folk Era, FE1436D, 1977).


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

**"Soon We Will All Be Going Home"**

_T**here's a lonesome, homeward looking bird**_

_**Sailing west, without a word**_

_**Sailing his shadow, DC highway, coming on**_

_**Everybody watches 'till he's gone**_

Grissom urged Odysseus through the stormy night as fast as he felt the horse could safely run along the treacherous, rain-soaked roads. While he trusted Nikolai to honor his vow that he and Varrick would remain at the inn, Gil had no way of knowing who, if anyone other than Queen Sofia, had been involved with Tarek's murderous plot. His only though at that point was of Sara and her well-being. He had to take her someplace fairly close where he could be certain no one would be able to get to her and cause her further injury. He knew of such a place, only a few hours away, and closed his mind to everything other than the task of seeing Sara to safety. Grissom told himself not to dwell on what he had done, that Sara was all that mattered. There would be time enough later for recrimination and self-loathing, and entire lifetime for condemnation and penance.

Hunching his shoulders against the rain, Grissom risked a glance down at Sara. Her eyes were closed, her face half hidden beneath his chin. Other than to return his dagger to him, she had not moved. While gratified that she placed so much trust in his ability to protect her and find haven against both the storm and other potential villains, he was growing more and more concerned by her lethargy. He hoped that her mind was just protecting her from the harsh memories of Tarek's attack as opposed to her suffering a more serious injury that he had somehow not seen when her first found her.

He pulled her more tightly against his chest and they rode late into the night until they finally reached the imposing iron gates of Saint Benet Monastery. Although numerous lean-to sheds lined to outer walls, Grissom bypassed them all and reined Odysseus to a shuddering halt right before the entrance. Had he been traveling alone he might have begged a corner of one of the huts or just roughed it in the weather. However, he had Sara to consider. She was soaked and injured and he needed to get her someplace dry and warm.

Aware of the increasing pain and stiffness in his left thigh, Grissom dismounted gingerly, gradually adding more weight to the injured leg until he was certain he could support both himself and Sara. As he reached up to assist Sara from the saddle, he became aware that several people had poked their heads from the rough shelters along the wall and Grissom raised his eyebrows in alarm as one made bold to approach. The knight placed the bulk of his body between the Princess and the stranger, uncertain whether the man posed a threat or was just curious about the new arrivals.

The traveler, garbed in the rough dress of a peasant halted abruptly in his tracks, his eyes growing wide at the sight of the bold Maltese Cross embroidered high upon the right shoulder of Grissom's long-sleeved black undershirt. His mouth gaped open and he started to retreat for he knew immediately that standing before him was the legendary Black Monk. No one else in the kingdom wore such an emblem. The man scurried back to his own shanty to whisper to the others of the rider's identity. Soon the gossip had spread and all of the travelers were awake and peering through the gloom in an effort to get a glimpse of the famous warrior.

Grissom ignored them and wrapped a steadying arm about Sara's shoulders as they slowly made their way to the portal of the gate. The man who had first sought to send them along their way approached again, this time with his hat clutched respectfully to his chest as the rain battered his head. He nervously plucked at Grissom's sleeve to get his attention and when the knight whirled to him, he introduced himself as Javon and hesitantly offered his assistance. The knight arched en eyebrow and regarded the man intently before nodding to indicate his consent and thanks. Javon unwound Odysseus' reins from the saddle pommel and took his place behind the Black Monk and the mysterious figure shrouded tightly in a dark cloak.

Reaching for the handle of the knocker on the outside of the gate, Grissom paused, his hand wrapped around the cold metal as he considered the time. Without the assistance of the moon, he had no way to judge the time. Shrugging to himself and hoping he was not interrupting one of the canonical hours, Gil raised the huge clapper and allowed it fall back against the post with a resounding clang.

Moments later a hooded, black-mantled monk appeared and he and Grissom engaged in quiet conversation. Motioning silently for the knight to wait, the monk disappeared only to return swiftly with another monk whom Grissom recognized from previous visits as Brother Timothy. The monk listened quietly while Gil shared just the barest details of his tale and then motioned the small party inside the monastery gates. Once within the cloister, a Novice led Javon and Odysseus to a barn on the opposite side of the muddy garth while Brother Timothy hurried Grissom and Sara towards one of the small, neat guest houses located near the infirmary.

Once inside the guest quarters, Grissom wasted no time in stripping the two drenched cloaks from Sara's shivering form. He reached over to snatch a thick blanket from one of the low-slung pallet beds to wrap her in and settled her on a brightly braided rug before the fireplace. Brother Timothy busied himself with starting a fire with the kindling and wood stacked near the hearth as the door swung open and the Abbot of St. Benet's Monastery strode into the small house. Grissom's face softened at the sight of the older man, his anxiety vanishing for just a moment as he sighed with relief. "Father Ralph."

"Gil." The Abbot greeted the younger man warmly, his voice full of affection as he crossed the room to enfold the knight in a fatherly hug. "Tis good to see you again so soon, my son. What adventure brings you to our cloister this night?"

Grissom hurriedly explained the kidnapping, ensuing skirmish at the inn and the nature of Sara's injuries while unbuckling his belt to relieve himself of his weapons. He placed the heavy belt on the hearth, stripping off his rain-drenched, blood-soaked tunic as he spoke. "Due to the gravity of the situation," he said, his voice muffled beneath the wool of the soggy garment as he pulled it over his head, "I was forced to leave in a hurry and had precious little time to prepare. Myria packed what she could," he continued, finally freeing himself from his sodden tunic and tossing it into a corner, "but I fear I am lacking the herbs and salves I need to properly care for the Princess."

Father Ralph gave Brother Timothy some quiet instructions and as soon as the monk slipped quietly from the room, the Abbot turned a critical gaze towards Grissom and Sara. His face clouded with concern and he rubbed an age-hardened hand over his bald pate as he watched the younger man wince and roll his left shoulder several times before kneeling next to Sara. His worried eyes touched upon the bloody strips wrapped around Grissom's thigh and Sara's purpling cheek and he bowed his head briefly in prayer before moving to sit in a wooden chair away from the fireplace.

T**_here's a cold sky breaking where he's been_**

**_Flying westward with the wind_**

**_It kind of makes me wonder_**

**_When these empty eyes will find you_**

**_Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend_**

**_Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend_**

Brother Timothy and a young Oblate returned carrying a heavy iron cauldron packed with supplies, a smaller kettle and a large wooden bucket filled with fresh rainwater. Grissom pulled his attention from Sara long enough to nod his thanks and Brother Timothy, at the Abbott's reassurance that his services are no longer needed, left the guest house with the Oblate trailing behind. Father Ralph busied himself with unpacking the various herbs, salves, covered jars and corked bottles and added water to both the cauldron and kettle and hung both on hooks to heat over the now roaring fire.

The air within the small room filled with a myriad of pungent earthy odors as Father Ralph added dried herbs and tinctures from corked bottles to cauldron and kettle. Grissom paid little attention to the Abbot as he began to slowly unwrap Sara from her woolen cocoon. Setting the blanket near the hearth to keep it warm, he began stripping Sara's sodden garments, brushing aside her half-hearted protests and feeble attempts to grab at his hands.

"Sara, leof-mon, you are soaked through. I need to remove these wet clothes to get you warm." The sound of his voice, or perhaps the absent-minded endearment, seemed to calm her and she stopped struggling. Grissom quickly finished removing her torn clothing and wrapped her back in the blanket before pulling a straw-stuffed pallet mattress before the fire and coaxing her to lie down.

"Will you allow me to treat your wounds?"

Sara opened her eyes and searched his face, reaching a trembling hand to touch his beard before wordlessly agreeing with a tiny nod.

"Are you sure, Lemman?" Grissom persisted, swallowing heavily. "I am going to have to remove the blanket and touch you in very private areas." She nodded again, whimpering softly as she turned away and drew a quivering hand over her face as if to hide.

Grissom drew a deep breath and released it slowly as he reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it above her waist to inspect the damage between her thighs. He clenched his jaw tightly and released a low, primal growl at the sight of the smooth, creamy flesh. Sara's once flawless skin was now raw and bruised, marred by angry scratches where Tarek had groped and fumbled in his haste to savagely claim her. A wave of pure fury crashed over him at the sight of the damage caused by his brother and Grissom's hands shook violently with suppressed rage as he silently accepted a warm, wet cloth and jar of ointment from the Abbot.

Father Ralph withdrew again to the shadows, watching silently as Grissom first cleaned and then soothed the aromatic slave over Sara's abused flesh. His hands were soft and caring as he worked, and murmured softly to her the entire time, low, tender words of sympathy and affection that the Father had to strain to hear. He finished his ministrations between Sara's thighs as quickly as possible and removed the blanket further to treat her neck and chest.

The Abbot's brow raised in concern and alarm as the knight gazed upon the mottled bruises along the graceful column of Sara's neck and the purpling bite mark imprinted upon her breast. Fiercely, Grissom squeezed, compressing the heavy ceramic crock so tightly that it cracked beneath the pressure of his hand. Father Ralph was well acquainted with the compassionate man hidden beneath the maille of the Black Monk; he had watched Gil grow from boy to man and knew well his gentle soul. Never in the thirty years or so years that he had acted as Grissom's surrogate father had he ever known the younger man to openly exhibit such emotion, to react with such possessiveness and passion. He listened carefully and permitted himself a small smile as he realized Gil was praying.

_Voce mea ad Dominum clamavi,_

_voce mea ad Dominum deprecatus sum._

_Effundo in conspectu ejus orationem meam,_

_et tribulationem meam ante ipsum pronuntio:_

_in deficiendo ex me spiritum meum,_

_et tu cognovisti semitas meas._

_In via hac qua ambulabam_

_absconderunt laqueum mihi._

_Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam,_

_et non erat qui cognosceret me:_

_periit fuga a me,_

_et non est qui requirat animam meam._

_Clamavi ad te, Domine;_

_dixi: Tu es spes mea,_

_portio mea in terra viventium._

_Intende ad deprecationem meam,_

_quia humiliatus sum nimis._

_Libera me a persequentibus me,_

_quia confortati sunt super me._

_Educ de custodia animam meam_

_ad confitendum nomini tuo;_

_me exspectant justi donec retribuas mihi.1_

Grissom efficiently treated Sara's breast and throat, pulling the blanket tightly about her one more. He carefully stroked a finger-full of ointment across the dark bruise on her cheek more of the ointment to the bruise on her cheek and slathered a heavy coat of the sharp-scented salve around her wrists before loosely wrapping her abraded flesh with long strips of bleached linen bandages. Father Ralph silently passed him a cup of tea, noting the trembling in Grissom's hand as he fumbled to grab the handle of the tin cup. The knight sniffed the heady contents of the steaming cup and nodded appreciatively at the soothing aroma of lemon balm and lavender before turning to offer the cup to Sara.

Grissom slowly pulled Sara into a sitting position before shifting her gently into his lap. Once she was settled comfortably on his uninjured thigh, Gil wrapped his arm about her and held her close, rocking her gently and mumbling soothing words to her as she took the cup from him slowly sipped the soothing tea. When Sara finished, he set her cup aside and lowered her back to the pallet and settling her down snuggly again before the fire. He remained next to her, cradling her head in his lap and running his hands through her hair until she drifted off into a troubled slumber.

"Gil?" Grissom turned to face the Abbot, his face lined and weary as he cocked his head and waited for Father Ralph to continue. "You were mumbling the 141st Psalm. "Other than the obvious reason," he questioned, motioning towards Sara, "what is troubling you?"

_**Wish I had a poet's open soul**_

_**Wish I had a poet's open soul**_

_**Find the songs to tell you,**_

_**Find the words to say**_

Grissom eased Sara's head from his lap and moved to perch on the rough edge of the slate hearth. For long moments he stared blankly into the flames; the oranges and blues casting a harsh, eerie glow about his face. Small droplets of rainwater leaked from his garments, hissing as they sought to puddle upon the warm stones.

Finally, seeming to draw wisdom from whatever he had seen deep within the flames, the knight stirred. Deliberately pushing the sleeves of his black undershirt high above his elbows, Grissom reached for his heavy belt and pulled the dagger from its sheath. As he held the knife over the fire, the Black Monk began to mumble, his words hushed but distinct.

"Dixitque ad eum: Qui fecisti? Vox sanguinis fratris tui clamat ad me de terra. Nunc igitur maledictus eris super terram, quae aperuit os suum, et suscepit snaguinem fratris tui de manu tua. Cum operatus fueris eam, non dabit tibi fructus suos: vagus et profugus eris super terram."2

Father Ralph watched in horrified fascination as Grissom pulled the blade from the fire, wet a finger against his tongue and idly touched the glowing blade, noting the light sizzle of his moist flesh against the hot steel with bleak satisfaction.. Hesitating only a moment, Gil twisted the knife and sliced the dagger's heated edge along the inside of his left forearm, opening a small cut roughly equal in length to his smallest finger. The Abbot gasped as a well of blood bubbled from the wound; bright red against the pale flesh. Grissom made no sound; his grim expression revealed no pain as he ran his thumb along the length of the gash.

Drawing a deep breath, Grissom raised his trembling hand and smeared a jagged line of blood across his forehead. "…Posuitque Dominus Cain signum, ut nom interficeret eum omnis qui invenisset eum. Egressusque Cain a facie Domini, habitavit profugus in terra ad orientalem plagem Eden."3

"Like Cain slew his brother, Abel, I have slain my brother, Tarek," he said, raising haunted eyes to regard Father Ralph. "And like Cain, I now bear a mark as proof of my sin."

"You had no choice."

"Oh, but I did," Grissom said softly. "I could have relieved him of his sword with very little effort, bound him hand and foot and returned him to King James to stand trial for treason where he would have paid the ultimate penalty for his crimes. James would have seen him nailed to the castle door and personally stripped the flesh from his back before placing his head upon the block to await the fall of the axe."

Father Ralph blanched at Grissom's graphic description.

"I...willingly chose to fight him. I...I..." Grissom stammered, not knowing how to explain. He wiped his bloody thumb down the front of his undershirt as he searched for a way to put his feelings into words. Never, in all his years as a warrior, had he felt such an explosion of hatred, never had he been so blinded by emotion, by the love he harbored for Sara, that he would gladly duel to the death to protect her. "For the first time in my life," Gil continued, the deeply-etched lines of sorrow marring his face shadowing the rich despair in his voice, "I wanted to harm someone for reasons having nothing to do with honorable and just battle."

The Abbott bowed his head, considering the gravity of Grissom's candid confession. He handed the knight a cup of tea and poured one for himself as he resumed his seat and continued to gather his thoughts. "Why did you make this choice? Was it vengeance for the way Tarek has treated you all these years?"

Grissom stared into the fire, stirring his tea absently with a thick finger. "I accepted long ago that Tarek hates me for reasons of his own, reasons I am not meant to understand."

Father Ralph nodded, clasping his hands together and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Do you return this hatred?"

"No," the knight blurted, horrified and stricken by the question. He paused a moment before continuing, his low voice heavy with pain. "He is my brother." Grissom watched his hands flex open and close, fisting as he struggled with his feelings. "I…love him," he finally muttered. "He is my brother."

"Then why, Gil?" Grissom turned towards the Abbot, his eyes raw and pleading.

"He was hurting my Sara."

"You love her," Father Ralph stated kindly, amused by Grissom's timid nod of agreement and the younger man's sudden refusal to meet his gaze. "And you fought to save her from Tarek. Gil, that in itself is a noble and honorable cause. If he had not taken her, would you have sought him out to do him harm?"

The Abbot continued without waiting for Grissom's response, knowing full well that Gil would never have willfully sought out Tarek. "And had you not done battle with your brother, what would have been Sara's fate?"

"He would have...taken her, in the most brutal way possible, and then..." Grissom swallowed heavily, forcing back the lump of emotion clogging his throat and threatening to overwhelm him with its intensity. "...Then, he would have killed her."

"So you were saving her."

_**Soon we will all be going home**_

_**Soon we will all be going home**_

"Did you murder Tarek out of revenge? Did your pride lead you to strike him down? Did you smite him for past wrongs?"

Grissom shook his head violently, a soundless no forming on his lips. He drew a heavy breath and spoke in a monotone so low that the Abbot had to strain to hear him. "I had to protect the Princess." Gil's mouth opened and closed several times, his expression bleak as he struggled to force the words into the open. "But that does not change anything, Father. Duty or no, I still murdered my only brother."

"Did you?" Father Ralph blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head. "Gil, think with your head and not your sorrowing heart. By your own account, which I have no reason to doubt, Tarek rushed you and you both fell down the stairs. Did you actually run him through?"

Giving Gil no time to respond, the Abbot raised his voice, his tone steely as he fought to help Grissom see the truth of the matter. "Did you willfully and with malice thrust your sword into Tarek's chest and murder him?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed in concentration as he replayed the fight in his mind. "I never struck him," he finally admitted with wide-eyed realization. "He impaled himself upon my blade when he rushed me. He was dead before we landed at the bottom of the stairs." He was silent for several moments before whispering, "But I wanted to."

Father Ralph cocked his head and scratched at his long beard as he considered Gil's final comment. "You wanted to…" His voice trailed off and he raised both hands in a questioning gesture, prompting Gil to continue.

"Run him through," Grissom grunted, the depth of his self-loathing evident in his guttural response.

"But you did not."

"No. But..."

Grissom's voice faltered as Father Ralph shook his head sharply and rose from his seat. He stalked over to the hearth and hunkered down on his haunches, his robe pooling about his feet as he leveled Grissom with a glare. "Listen to me, son," the Abbot commanded in a stern voice as he grasped Grissom's rough, bloodstained hands with his own. "No, listen to and heed the scriptures. Think upon the Epistles of St. John the Evangelist.4"

"Gil, you are not an evil man, for in your heart and in your deeds and in your words, you know love, not wickedness. I have heard tales from travelers and friars alike of the Knight's Tournament and your gentle treatment of your nephew. I know about Sandre and all you have done for him. You have a great, untapped capacity for love, Gil, for you love not only God and your brethren but also a brother who proved time and time again to be undeserving of that love and compassion."

"Hate did not compel you to fight, my son." Grissom tried to interrupt but the Abbot cut off any protests he might have voiced with a sharp wave of his hand. "Yes, you were angry. Yes, you wished to do him harm. But you felt these things because he threatened an innocent, not because you are sinful or immoral. The blackness of hatred did not compel you to go searching for your brother. You went to save a life, Gil, not necessarily take one. At the very least, and your love for Sara notwithstanding, you were performing your sworn duty to King James as the Black Monk and Knight Champion of the Realm."

Seating himself on the hearth beside Grissom, Father Ralph snatched a length of linen bandage from the neat pile and dipped it into the steaming cauldron. As he washed the blood from Grissom's forehead and dabbed at the wound on his forearm, he spoke in low soothing tones. "I think God will understand." Pausing to wet the bandage again the Abbot spoke while carefully winding the linen around Grissom's forearm and tucking the loose end between two of the folds to hold it in place. "You are a good man Gil, do not ever forget that."

_**Soon we will all be going home**_

_**Soon we will all be going home**_

The bandaging complete, the Abbot sought to lighten the mood and turned an impish face towards Grissom, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. "What about Sara?" Father Ralph questioned eagerly, a merry twinkle lighting his pale blue eyes. "Does she return your love?"

Grissom's face brightened, a small wistful smile touching his lips. "I think she does," he replied, his brow creasing as he continued. "But whether for the knight or for the man, I am not certain."

Father Ralph stood and stretched before reaching down to help the weary knight climb to his feet. "Have faith, Gil, in yourself and in Sara."

Straightening slowly in an effort to keep most of his weight off of his wounded thigh, Grissom winced and breathed a melancholy sigh. "Perhaps it would be best for both of us," he began, his mood growing pensive, voice full of sadness and longing, "if I did not. Nothing will ever come of it."

"Sometimes the impossible becomes possible." Father Ralph smiled gently, reaching out to clasp a warm hand behind Grissom's sturdy neck. "And sometimes things, even those as mysterious and confusing as love, have a way of working themselves out." He squeezed lightly to emphasize his words before huffing a regretful sigh of his own.

"I must go. Dawn will soon touch the horizon and the hour for Prime draws nigh. You are welcome to remain as long as necessary and join us for services if you so desire. You are still a full member of the Brotherhood despite your absence these many years."

He pulled Grissom close and kissed the younger man's forehead fondly before drawing the knight's head down to rest upon his shoulder. "A father has never been more proud of a son than I am of you," Father Ralph whispered into Gil's ear. "You always have a home here, you always have a family. Don't ever forget that." Grissom nodded, the coarse texture of Father Ralph's simple robe oddly comforting as it scratched along his cheek.

For long moments Grissom simply rested with his head on the Abbot's shoulder, drawing comfort from the Abbot's wisdom and compassion. Finally the knight straightened and attempted to step back but the older man griped his shoulders to keep him in place. Grissom tried to avert his gaze beneath Father Ralph's intense scrutiny, knowing the older man could plainly see the misery and guilt etched upon his face.

"I know I have given you much to consider this night," the Father said, stooping slightly to look Grissom in the eye and ensure that he was listening. "Make your contrition before God for I have faith that all will be forgiven. If you wish, I will return to hear your confession after you have rested." He sighed and shook his head, giving Gil's shoulders one last squeeze before heading for the door.

The Abbot stopped suddenly and turned to face Grissom one last time. "Gil?" He waited until the knight raised his head and then fixed the younger man with a stern gaze much like one a father would bestow upon an errant son. He waited, watching Grissom squirm uncomfortably beneath the weight of his perusal. Father Ralph allowed a slight grin to ghost across his face as he motioned towards Gil's leg and admonished, "Tend to your wounds before they fester."

_**There's a lonesome, homeward looking bird**_

_**Flying westward with the wind**_

_**It kind of makes me wonder **_

_**When these empty eyes will find you**_

Grissom was kneeling to check on Sara when a timid knock sounded against the whitewashed planks of the door. At his quiet command, a wide-eyed Oblate entered bearing the pack from Grissom's horse. Grissom fought the amused smirk twitching beneath his mustache and managed to gravely nod his thanks to the youngster. The Oblate continued to stare, his expression a blend of fear and awe, as he slowly backed towards the door. Gil watched the boy turn and run across the muddy garth, shaking his head in exasperation as he closed the door and set the pack down by the pallet where Sara was sleeping. After reassuring himself that she was resting comfortably, he opened the pack and began to see to his own wounds.

Easing out of his undershirt, Gil winced from the pain in his shoulder and tentatively fingered a long bruise along his ribs. He sat on the edge of the pallet to remove his boots, unwrap the mud-spattered winnegas from his lower legs and peel away the blood-caked strips he had cut from Tarek's tunic to bind his thigh. The knight stood again, wavering slightly as he removed his long pants and braies to stand nude before the fire.

Grissom frowned at the long gash running the length of his thigh, biting his lower lip as he pulled several threads from the wound. Seating himself on the hearth, he washed the oozing cut with the tincture of calendula and St. John's Wort that Father Ralph had left simmering for him and tossed several dried yarrow leaves in the pot to heat before applying them as a wet dressing to help staunch the flow of blood. He wrapped his entire upper leg tightly with strips of clean linen bandage to hold the leaves in place.

After applying salve from the cracked crock to the darkened flesh along his side, Gil uncorked one of the small brown bottles lined up on the hearth and cautiously sniffed the contents. A small smile touched his lips even as his nose wrinkled at the strong sappy odor. He made a mental note to thank Father Ralph as he massaged his aching knees and shoulders with a strong tonic made from birch leaves and willow bark.

With all of his noticeable injures treated, Grissom rummaged through the pack and fish out a pair of loose pants that reach to his ankles and a sleeveless undershirt. Once he clothed, he reached into the pack again searching for some bread or cheese and stopped as he encountered a light, gauze-like roll of fabric. Gil removed the small bundle and shook it out, a look of wonder crossing his face as he recognized a woman's kirtle Myria had thoughtfully added to the other supplies. He pulled the blanket away and swiftly dressed Sara, praying he would not awaken her. She moaned and turned towards him but otherwise did not stir.

Exhausted and in pain, Grissom stretched out on the pallet beside Sara and inched close to her to share the warmth of the woolen blanket. Feeling a wave of fierce protectiveness flow over him, he rolled onto his side and pulled her close, tucking her securely within the shelter of his body. Knowing he could do no more and that Sara was safe, the melancholy knight finally allowed himself to rest as the first hint of morning lightened the stormy sky.

_**Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend**_

_**Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend**_

_**Soon we will all be going home**_

_**Soon we will all be going home5**_

1 Psalm 141: 2-8 "(2) I cried to the Lord with my voice: with my voice I made supplication to the Lord. (3) In his sight I pour out my prayer, and before him I declare my trouble: (4) When my spirit failed me, then thou knewest my paths. In this way wherein I walked, they have hidden a snare for me. (5) I looked on my right hand, and beheld, and there was no one that would know me. Flight hath failed me: and there is no one that hath regard to my soul. (6) I cried to thee, O Lord: I said: Thou art my hope, my portion in the land of the living. (7) Attend to my supplication: for I am brought very low. Deliver me from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I. (8) Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name: the just wait for me, until thou reward me."

2 Genesis 4: 10-12 "(10) And he said to him: What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth to me from the earth. (11) Now therefore cursed shalt thou be upon the earth, which hath opened her mouth and received the blood of thy brother at thy hand. (12) When thou shalt till it, it shall not yield to thee its fruit: a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be upon the earth.

3 Genesis 4:15-16 "(15)…and the Lord set a mark upon Cain, that whosoever found him should not kill him. (16) And Cain went out from the face of the Lord, and dwelt as a fugitive on the earth at the east side of Eden."

4 1 John 3:11-18 (DR) (11) For this is the declaration which you have heard from the beginning, that you should love one another. (12) Not as Cain, who was of the wicked one and killed his brother. And wherefore did he kill him? Because his own works were wicked: and his brother's just. (13) Wonder not brethren, if the world hate you. (14) We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love the brethren. He that loveth not abideth in death. (15) Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer. And you know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in himself. In this we have known the charity of God, because he hath laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. (17) He that hath the substance of this world and shall see his brother in need and shall shut up his bowels from him: how doth the charity of God abide in him? (18) My little children, let us not love in word not in tongue, but in deed and in truth.

5 "Homeward Looking Bird." Words and Music by John Stewart. _The Secret Tapes '86_ (Homecoming - 450, 1986).


	11. Chapter Ten

**Author's Notes:** Many, many heartfelt thank yous to **Cincoflex** for her amazing beta work and unflagging encouragement and support. **Sidle77** also deserves a huge shout out for helping me keep my head screwed on straight and for all of the gentle prodding she has done along the way. And finally, I would be remiss if I did not mention **SSidleismyidol (SIMI)**. Despite the fact that SIMI is wholly responsible for derailing me and luring me away from this fic with a side-project throughout the spring and early summer, she is also the person who has been relentlessly zapping me with a taser and telling me to get off my lazy duff and finish this mess. So ladies? I owe each and every one of you a huge dose of gratitude and love because without the three of you I can honestly say that I probably would not have returned to this fic.

**Chapter Ten**

_**We will find the golden road  
Somewhere down the line  
If we don't, we all were sold  
Somewhere down the line**_

Grissom and Sara remained safely hidden within the walls of Saint Benet's for the next few hours. Sara was much improved after a night of deep, dreamless slumber, and she sleepily encouraged Gil to join his brother monks for the brief services of Terce and Sext that marked nine o'clock and noon hours respectively. They planned to leave shortly after the Sext service but were persuaded to first share a humble meal with all of the inhabitants of Saint Benet's in the Monastery's spacious dining hall. As they occupied a bench with the Abbot at the head table, Grissom remained oblivious to the many eyes glancing furtively in his direction while Sara noted with wry amusement that even here, where he was well-known and visited often, the Black Monk was still regarded with curiosity and awe.

Father Ralph's eyes twinkled with amusement when Sara leaned close to question him about her observations. "How do you know they are staring at him and not at you? I can assure you that they are greatly unaccustomed to having someone as beautiful as you grace our dining hall." Sara flushed with pleasure at his unabashed flattery and laid a gentle hand atop his in a gesture of thanks.

He smiled kindly and spoke quietly in a voice only she could hear. "Generally when Gil visits, he is dressed as one of us, in a simple woolen robe," he said, his rough hands motioning to his own garment. "He blends in and those who do happen to notice that he is not a resident here believe him to be nothing more than a visiting monk from a different monastery." His smile faded and his face sobered. "The circumstances surrounding your sudden appearance at our gates early this morning did not allow him that anonymity. He was forced to face his brothers as a knight, as opposed to a peer this time."

Sara frowned at his words. Much like Heather had done several months ago, Father Ralph had drawn a distinction between Grissom the knight and Grissom the man. "Father," she whispered, tugging gently on the sleeve of his robe. "Which is the real Gil? Is he a knight or is he a monk?"

"He is both and he is neither, my child," the Abbot replied thoughtfully while stroking his beard. He regarded Sara with a grandfatherly smile, hoping she would take his advice to heart. He remembered what Gil said earlier about not knowing whether Sara cared for the knight or the man and could not resist giving the Princess a little nudge in the right direction. "You need to search beneath the robes and the maille to truly discover the complex yet gentle soul that dwells within each." He rose abruptly, leaving Sara to ponder what he had said as he concluded the meal and dismissed the monks with a simple prayer of thanksgiving and benediction.

Father Ralph accompanied them to the gate to see them off, trying to convince Grissom to stay a full night to rest further recover from their ordeal. Grissom argued that the weather was turning for the worse and that they needed to reach the safety of his estate. His people would know what to properly ensure Sara's safety and, should there be further attempts on the life of the Princess, he did not want to endanger anyone residing within the cloistered walls of Saint Benet's. The Abbot nodded his understanding and pressed upon Grissom a small pouch of herbs, bundle of cold food and skin of tea. He offered several last prayers for their safety and well-being and sent them one their way with a final hug and kiss for Grissom and fierce whispered reminder of his pride and love for his surrogate son.

Sara watched with great interest. She had never seen Grissom as open and relaxed with anyone, other than perhaps herself, and she wondered at the relationship between the elderly Abbot and her melancholy knight. She knew little of Grissom's past but was aware that he had been educated and more or less raised at Saint Benet's before moving to the Palace to serve her father. What she was witnessing, however, was more than a simple relationship between a shepherd and one of his lambs. She sensed that Father Ralph was perhaps the only person who truly knew that man of whom he earlier spoke and that he loved Gil much the same as any father loves a son.

Drawing the hoods of their cloaks about their heads as the threatening skies began spitting snow flurries, Grissom and Sara finally left the monastery for the long ride to Grissom's estate. Pausing only to eat a cold meal of bread and cheese that the monks had provided and periodically rest and water the horse, they rode throughout the remainder of the day. Wrapped warmly in a cloak and an extra wool blanket Father Ralph had provided, Sara dozed most of the way. The rhythmic clopping of Odysseus' hooves on the rapidly freezing road, the sounds of the surrounding forest muffled by the ever-increasing snowy shroud and the warmth and security of the muscular arms tightly enfolding her had all conspired to lull her into a light, dozing slumber.

Grissom remained alert, his eyes continually scanning the passing countryside for any sign of danger. He gloried in the warmth and weight of Sara upon his chest and allowed himself to draw comfort from her slight form as she slept as trusting as a babe within his arms. Gil inhaled deeply, loving the bite of the frigid air in his nose and lungs, the crisp almost painful scent reminding him in the most tangible of ways that a new day, a fresh day was upon him.

His thoughts wandered as they rode, touching back on the events of the past few days before settling in on the Psalmodies of Sext that were still ringing clearly within his mind. He felt it appropriate that the final verses he had chanted were prayers of pilgrimage; for mercy, thanksgiving and unshakable trust. He and Sara were not exactly exiles in the truest sense of the term, nor were they necessarily pilgrims, but he had freed Sara from captivity. She was once again free to pursue her own life and his actions, while not undertaken for selfish reasons, might possess the power to finally erase a past sin and thus allow his soul to return from a long and barren exile that had lasted for fifteen long and lonely years.

Darkness had settled many hours earlier and the light flurries had whipped into a full-fledged storm by the time the two travelers passed the gate marking the entrance of Grissom's estate. They were greeted at the gate by two sentries and a low horn was sounded to alert those at the manor house of their arrival.

Conrad moved swiftly from the shelter of the recessed doorway to help Sara dismount and the startled Princess was immediately taken in hand and whisked into the warmth of the Great Hall by a clucking Myria. Grissom watched her go with a knowing smirk and once certain that she was out of sight, struggled to dismount himself.

His face paled and mouth tightened as he put all of his weight on his left leg in order to swing his right over the saddle. The biting cold and time astride has caused the injured limb to tighten and Gil was unable to hide the flash of pain that raced across his features. Conrad noticed Grissom's discomfort and rushed forward to offer his assistance. The knight winced as he wrapped his arm around the servant's shoulders and gingerly released his left leg from the stirrup and lowered it to the ground. Conrad supported Grissom long enough to make sure the knight had regained his balance before grabbing Odysseus' reins and calling to the stable hand to unload the packs and take Odysseus to the barn.

"Uncle?" Berenger croaked after watching Grissom struggle to dismount and stand. Gil looked at his nephew and shook his head sadly.

"I'm sorry," came the hoarse mutter as the knight dropped his gaze to the ground, the toe of his right boot scraping aimlessly against the frozen, snow covered ground. "I had no choice."

Bracing himself against the condemnation he was certain would be forthcoming from his nephew, Gil visibly flinched when he found himself engulfed by Berenger's hug. "Thank you," the boy croaked before resting his head against Gil's shoulder. Berenger swallowed heavily and wrapped his arms more tightly around his uncle; Grissom hesitantly returned the embrace, clumsily patting the lad's back in an awkward attempt to provide what comfort he could. "Thank you," he muttered into his uncle's sturdy neck. "Thank you for being honest with me and for ending things. Maybe now he can at long last release his hatred and find peace." Berenger choked a relieved sob. "I'm glad he is gone. We are finally free."

Myria appeared in the open doorway ready to scold Grissom for dallying. Conrad caught her eye and raised a finger to his lips. Shaking his head, he motioned towards Grissom and Berenger who had separated and were now speaking quietly. Myria took in the scene with a practiced eye, her chiding comments swallowed behind her pursed lips. She nodded once in understanding and approval before returning to the hall to care for the Princess.

"Is everything okay?" Sara asked fretfully when Myria returned alone. "Where's Grissom?"

Myria laid another blanket around Sara's shoulders and spoke in a low, soothing voice. "All is well, Milady. He is just speaking with Berenger and will be in shortly."

"Berenger?" Sara squeaked, her surprise evident before her voice changed and she allowed a tone of contempt to color her words. "What is he doing here? I find it hard to believe that any member of Tarek's family would be welcome under this roof."

"Lord Grissom is a member of Tarek's family," Myria reminded her gently. "Berenger is a good lad despite his sire and you owe him many thanks. He came here in the dead of night at muck risk to himself to turn against his father and tell Lord Grissom of Tarek's treachery. Had he not arrived when he did, who knows how much time might have passed before Milord learned of your fate and set out to find you."

Sara had the grace to flush slightly at the light rebuke; accepting the gentle admonishment and offering a silent promise to thank the lad for his efforts when the time arose. Myria was right; she was more indebted to Berenger than perhaps the lad would ever know. Had Grissom arrived not arrived when he did, her fate would have been much worse. A small shudder ran down her spine as she allowed herself, for just a moment, to remember what Tarek had promised. She shook her head to banish the terrifying memories and returned her attention to the present.

Not knowing what else to do with herself and unsure of a safe avenue of conversation, Sara folded her hands, placed them primly in her lap and looked about the Hall. She had always been curious about Grissom's home; what sort of things he would choose to remind himself of the life he had led thus far.

The Hall was appropriately apportioned with rich furnishings and wall coverings but there was nothing personal to allow guest to become acquainted with their host. There were no elaborate tapestries proclaiming he past glories, no portraits of his family, no…nothing. Banners bearing her father's colors and crest hung from the walls but Grissom's own banner was nowhere to be seen. Only one object stood out in curious mind, and it was tucked away in a darkened alcove of the Hall, as if destined to remain in the shadows much like the Lord of the Manor himself.

Sara rose gracefully to her feet and moved toward the gloomy corner to inspect the item more closely. It was a giant mahogany clock, towering in height to nearly scrape the high ceiling. The flickering light from the cheery fire did not fully light the face, but she could tell that it was quite different from other clocks she had seen. Noting that only every third hour was marked with two lines of writing beside the numerals, she turned to cast a glance at Myria, puzzlement clearly written on her features.

"Yes, it is quite a monstrosity," Myria sighed as she joined Sara before the clock. "It was a gift from Father Ralph; he had the Brothers at Saint Benet's make it especially for Lord Grissom. "That noisy beast of a clock only sounds every third hour to mark the hours of prayer. We generally have to muffle the bell inside when guests are about as it is truly loud enough to wake the dead."

Starting at 12:00 Sara began to read. "I take it the morning services are listed atop and the evening ones beneath?"

Myria nodded. "You just missed Compline. Matins, at Midnight, will be the next hour."

Sara turned back to the clock, silently reciting the canonical hours and their corresponding places on the clock face. Matins, the midnight service, was followed by Lauds at 3:00 AM. Prime, Terce, Sext and None, what she vaguely remembered Grissom once referring to as the "Little Hours" came next and led into the evening services of Vespers and Compline.

"Do you keep the hours, Myria?" she asked while tracing the writing on the face with a curious finger.

"Oh no, Princess," the older woman laughed. "Lord Grissom does not require that we hold to his traditions. If we wish to join him, we are welcome, as are any guests who might be about during the hours, but her certainly does not hold it against us if we do not."

"Why would Father Ralph present Grissom with such a gift?" Sara asked while allowing Myria to lead her back to her chair before the fire.

"Oh, I think that he wanted a very loud way to remind Lord Grissom that his duty to God was more important than his duty to the King regardless of what the King might think." Myria's eyes widened and her hands flew to cover her mouth as she realized just what she had said and to whom.

"I understand," Sara chuckled with a wry grin. "You needn't fear speaking plainly before me. In fact, I appreciate your candor all the more for the honesty behind your words." Myria smiled weakly and lowered her hands, her face still conveying some of the horror she felt over her verbal slip.

"I am well aware of my father's penchant, be it right or wrong, for believing that the world and the lives of those he rules belong exclusively to him," Sara continued, speaking warmly to Myria as if they were old friends instead of two people just met. "He tends to forget that they are persons in their own right and, as such, have aspects of their life that are not wholly devoted to him."

Emboldened by Sara's comments and lack of outward censure, Mryia leaned close to the Princess and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just between you and me, I wish both your father and Father Ralph would leave the poor man alone. He has been wholly consumed by his duties to God and King for so long that he forgets to tend to the man he is inside."

Sara sensed an opportunity to add Myria as an ally and spoke hurriedly to enlist the chatelaine's support and blessing. She could tell that Myria was very fond of Grissom and detected a fierce loyalty and protectiveness as well.

"I agree with you, Myria, more than you know. I fear that I have fallen in love with the man beneath the trappings of both knight and monk." She took both of Myria's work-roughened hands and held them securely with her own. "I am hoping that I can convince Grissom to give up his solitary and lonely ways. Can I count on your help?"

Shifting uncomfortably beneath the weight of Mryia's frank scrutiny, Sara held her breath while waiting for the woman to speak. She had no idea what Myria was thinking but hoped it would play out in her favor.

Myria bobbed her head once, a firm nod of agreement and squeezed the Princess' hands. "I will help you Milady. I will give you all the assistance I can because, whether that stubborn boar of a man is willing to admit to himself or anyone else, you are what he wants and what he needs."

Their moment was interrupted when the door opened on a wind-swept bang and Grissom finally entered the hall. Casting a curious, suspicious glance at the two women whispering beside the fire, he brushed the snow from his cloak and hung it on a wooden peg near the door before beckoning Myria. He waved aside her anxious questions pertaining to his well being and politely requested a proper meal for both he and Sara.

Myria moved to step away, but Grissom pulled her back and continued to address her in the same low, reserved tone. He had a very long list of things he needed done and spoke for several minutes before finally allowing Myria to scurry away. She returned momentarily with two mugs of boiling water and a small pot of honey. Grissom removed the pouch Father Ralph had given him from his belt and added some herbs Myria had brought with the mugs of water. He added a dollop of honey to each steaming, fragrant cup before handing one to Sara and taking a chair beside her, stretching his legs towards the fire in an effort to thaw his ice-crusted boots and warm his nearly frozen feet.

They had barely begun to sip their tea when Berenger appeared bearing a wooden tray loaded with food. The heady aroma of boiled potatoes, leeks and cabbage filled the air as he served them bowls brimming with hot thick vegetable pottage, laid platters of warm bread and crocks honey upon the hearth and placed glasses of cold milk beside their chairs. When he was assured that they had everything that they needed, he withdrew back into the shadows of the hall as silently as he had appeared.

_**When we were young and we'd shine  
And I believe it's getting closer all the time  
We will find the golden road  
Somewhere down the line**_

After doing justice to the simple but filling meal, Grissom and Sara retired to the second floor of the keep. Gil directed the Princess to a lavishly decorated chamber, shaking his head in exasperation when she protested that she would not take his room. "This is not my chamber, Leof-mon, but the apartment that I maintain for you father's comfort when he visits." A casual wave of his hand indicated his own room across the hall.

He gently grasped her hand and led her inside. Sara looked around the comfortable room, noting the change of clothes that had been laid on the bed for her and the steaming tub resting before the hearth. Grissom placed a crock of salve on a low table by the tub and asked her if she needed one of the ladies to help her with her bath. When she assured him that she would be fine, he returned to the doorway, reminding her that he was right across the hall before closing the door behind him and leaving her to her own thoughts and company.

Sara hurriedly undressed and eased into the steaming tub with a groan of pleasure-filled satisfaction. A selection of scented soaps have been laid out for her on the low table where Grissom had placed the salve and she immediately snatched up the lavender-scented bar from the dozen or so others that had been provided.

She spent a long time luxuriating in the bath allowing the hat water soak away her aches and weariness. She even permitted herself a small moment of weakness, one in which she cried out in gut-wrenching sobs as she remembered Tarek's cruelty and once again felt his pinching hands upon her thighs and his fetid breath upon her face. Gradually her tears slowed as the images of Tarek were replaced memories of Grissom's gentleness and tenderness as he cared for her. A glowing warmth having nothing to do with the water swirling around her grew beneath her breast and she wondered. She knew Gil cared deeply for her and maybe even loved her in his own stolid manner. His gift of the Maltese Cross spoke more plainly to her than mere words could ever hope to convey.

Her pendant! Her hands flew to her throat, her mind flashing back to the inn once again.

"_What is this," Tarek raged, holding Sara's Maltese Cross between two fingers as if it were some repulsive bit of scat. "I see my brother wasted no time marking you," he sneered, his rancid breath spitting wetly across her face with every hate-filled word. "Did he piss on you as well, Princess? Did he piss on you as a dog would piss on a tree to mark his territory?"_

"_It matters not," he snarled, wrapping the delicate chain in his fist and yanking it from her neck. He ignored her horrified gasp as he flung the necklace across the room and leered at her, his voice as bitter as newly brewed ale. "By the time I have finished with you, you will be marked as mine and only mine from the inside out. And there is nothing that bumbling half-wit brother of mine can do to save you."_

Sara reluctantly left the comfort of the tub and used a linen towel to dry off. After applying the salve to her injuries and wrinkling her nose in disgust at the pungent odor emanating from the crock, she donned the well-worn kirtle that had been left lying on the bed for her. As the garment passed her hips, Sara noted that whoever owned the gown had yet to hit the full bloom of womanhood. She loosed the ties of the shift as much as she could, sighing with relief as the pressure across her bosom eased and she could breathe freely once again. Hurrying now to finish her bath, she snatched a comb from the vanity and carefully worked the tangles from her long wet hair. She gathered the curly mass at the nape of her neck and tied it back with a bright ribbon she found.

Exhausted but restless, Sara began to pace the fine chamber, not comfortable with being alone in a strange place. She knew deep in heart that no common villain would dare enter the fortress of the feared Black Monk in an effort to do her harm. However, she was still very apprehensive. She had been taken from her own home, the Palace of the King, by men both he and Grissom trusted. She halted her restless footsteps abruptly in the middle of the room as she came to a bold decision.

Sara moved quietly across the drafty hall, pausing for a moment outside the chamber Grissom had indicated as his. Her hand lifted, poised to knock softly, before dropping to grasp the iron latch instead. She drew a steadying breath and carefully eased the door open to peer inside.

**_I will leave my worries go  
Somewhere down the line  
Live those dreams that I will sow  
Somewhere down the line_**

Grissom stood before the fire, his back to the door, wearing nothing but his short braies. His hair was damp and very curly as if he had not bothered to tame it with neither comb nor brush following his own bath. The flames from the cheery fire reflected merrily upon his skin and straps of hard muscle played across his back and shoulders as he reached to remove an iron cauldron from a hook above the fire. He set the battered pot near a thin woven mattress on the floor before the fire and turned towards a long wooden table piled high with bowls, crocks, mortar and pestles, pouches of herbs and long thin linen strips.

Sara's eyes widened and a surprised gasp slipped from her lips as she caught her first real glimpse of him in the flickering firelight. Her mouth went dry and that strange warmth she had begun to associate with Grissom bloomed brightly within her stomach before settling deeply between her thighs. Gil was the first nearly-nude male she had ever seen and she could not help but think that the figure standing before her was absolutely perfect in every regard.

Her gaze started at his face and moves slowly downward, her eyes caressing the thick sinewy slabs running from his neck to his shoulders before moving to the well-defined muscles of his chest. She lingered a moment on the golden cross swaying gracefully with every breath and movement before concentrating on his small male nipples and firm muscular waist. His braies hung low and loose upon his lean hips and Sara could scarcely remember to breathe as she took in the strong, muscular thighs, bowed legs and almost delicate, fine-boned feet.

The smooth skin of his chest was marred by a thick red scar that started above his right nipple and ripped down his torso before disappearing into his linen shorts. A dark black and purple bruise that was easily the size and breadth of one of her hands covered the ribs on his left side. Gil's attention, however, was not on the ugly bruise darkening his chest but rather on the long angry gash running the length of his entire left thigh.

Grissom heard her gasp and looked up, blushing as their eyes met. Neither dared speak, they merely stared for long moments until Sara broke the stalemate and entered into his room and closed the door behind her. Gil forced himself to remain still as Sara's eyes moved purposefully down his body. Her gaze finally settled on his injured thigh and she slowly moved forward to kneel before him upon the thin pallet. Reaching out a shaky hand to gingerly touch his tattered, oozing flesh, she scolded him. "Why did you not tell me that you had been wounded?"

"It was not important," he said quietly, raising his shoulders in a careless shrug as if dismissing her concerns.

Sara's eyebrows pulled together in a pronounced frown as a spark of anger flashed in her eyes. "How can you say that?"

Grissom sighed. "'Tis not a mortal wound, leof-mon, and will heal with time. My only concern was for your safety and well-being."

"But..."

Gently shaking his head, Grissom took one of his hands in hers to quell any further argument. Sara peered curiously at their entwined hands, turning them over and tightening her grip before looking up at him. Gil's breath sputtered through open lips as he returned her gaze, seeing something deeper in her eyes that he had never noticed before and did not fully understand.

"Can I help?" Sara's voice broke the mood and Grissom paused only a moment before nodding his head and sitting gingerly on the pallet next to her to quietly instruct her on how to care for his wound.

Sara dipped a strip of clean linen in the cauldron he had placed on the floor and cautiously began to bathe the long gash. While she worked, she asked him what was in the cauldron, her restless inquisitive mind seeking a distraction from the knowledge that she was causing him pain. Sara listened while cleaned, grateful for his calm voice as he explained that the crushed yarrow leaves should help stop the bleeding, the St. John's Wort clean would clean any remaining dirt from the wound and the goldenseal root would help the wound heal properly and to hopefully keep it from festering and growing worse.

Sara finally looked up and tossed the strip of linen back into the cauldron. Grissom has not moved at all during the lengthy process but she noticed a line of sweat beading his brow. Knowing better than to call him on it or question him on how he felt, she instead drew a deep breath and bravely asked, "now what?"

"You need to sew it up," he replied mildly, gesturing to a large needle and roll of thick thread sitting near the edge of his worktable.

"I'm sorry?" Sara shook her head slightly and gaped at him, certain that she had misunderstood. "I need to do what?"

Grissom smirked, amused by her reaction. "I am assuming that you are well-versed in the art of stitchery?" he asked in a teasing tone and she fetched the necessary supplies and returned to his side.

"Of course I am." Sara huffed her answer and rolled her eyes for good measure, annoyed that he would even ask such a question. "You know full well that the upbringing of any proper maiden includes all manner of needlework."

"Well," he said shrugging and pointing to his thigh, "simply pretend that my flesh is two ends of fabric and join the seams."

Sara's forehead puckered and she gnawed on her lower lip as she dipped the thread into the cauldron and painstakingly closed the gaping wound with small neat stitches. Gil was pale and sweating profusely by time she finished but he had not moved nor cried out in pain. Sara could not help but marvel at the control he was able to exert over himself or revel at the trust he placed within her hands.

Hauling himself to his feet with considerable effort, his legs weak and trembling, Grissom removed a second cauldron from the fire and staggered slightly as he moved it next to the first. The contents of this were more pungent than the first and Sara's eyes watered as she leaned over to get a better look at what was inside.

Grissom explained how to mix the crushed comfrey and calendula with some goose grease. Before she could ask, he told her that the comfrey contained properties to promote healing and the calendula would act to further cleanse the blood, reduce the swelling and help his leg heal more quickly. Sara smeared the greasy concoction liberally upon his thigh to create a poultice and then swathed his entire upper leg with clean linen strips.

"How long does that have to remain in place?" she asked while wiping the remains of the salve from her hands. She rose and moved to a small bowl of water resting on the table, wetting a clean strip of linen before returning to his side.

"We will change it in the morning when we clean the wound again. It is fine for the balance of the night."

Sara bathed his face with the cool linen cloth, tenderly erasing a small measure of the pain etched around his eyes and furrowing his brow. "Can I fetch you anything," she murmured as her hand stroked soothingly through his hair. "A horn of ale or goblet of wine to help ease your discomfort?"

Grissom shook his head and motioned to a third, smaller pot warming on the hearth. Sara sniffed the contents cautiously and flashed him a knowing smile. "Tea." She quickly poured two cups, added a dollop of honey to each and then walked across the room to place both cups on a small table by the bed.

_**When I was young and it'd shine  
But I believe it's getting closer all the time  
We will find the golden road  
Somewhere down the line  
Oh, somewhere down the line**_

Grissom tracked her fluid, flowing movements through his bedchamber with the channeled intensity of a hawk and regarded her with anxious curiosity as she finally crossed back to the pallet. Sara leaned down and extended both hands to him, motioning for him to allow her to help him stand. Gil's eyes widened and he bit his tongue to keep from moaning as her bosom threatened to breach the confined of the worn, borrowed kirtle. He closed his eyes and attempted to calm his breathing, his heart pounding recklessly in response to the unexpected show. When he felt certain he could face her without blushing, he opened his eyes, his gaze carefully steeled upon her hands, and struggled to his feet. He kept his gaze safely upon the stone floor as he let Sara maintain her firm grasp on his hands and lead him to the bed.

Sara dropped his hands, staring at him with powerful, almost hungry concentration. Grissom squirmed slightly under her forceful perusal. He has never before been the object of such close scrutiny and could not fathom the reason for the Princess' interest unless she was repulsed by his many injuries and scars or just wished to satisfy her maidenly curiosity.

His questions were answered when Sara timidly reached out a shaking hand and softly traced the long red scar running the length of his torso. Her fingers feathered softly over his heated skin as they move down to hover for a long moment at the edge of his braies before finally making their way back up towards his chest. She leaned closer and touched her lips to the bruise over his ribs, her hands still stroking innocently over his torso.

Grissom's nostrils flared and his skin broke out in goose bumps as Sara's gentle fingers rubbed over one small nipple and then the other. His stomach muscles clenched and he fisted his hands tightly in an effort to remain passive beneath her explorations. She watched his eyes darken as she stroked his sides and tickled her fingers along the edge of his shorts to play with the line of hair she discovered below his navel. An involuntary shiver finally broke the spell and caused Sara to drop her hands back down to her sides and raise her eyes to his. Both were aroused, the want and desire were shining plainly in their unwavering gazes. Grissom knew he could do nothing to stem the rush of blood to his groin and Sara was not entirely sure what was happening.

Sara cleared her throat and boldly fingered his long scar again, her eyes following the path of her hand. "Sir Geoffrey?" she asked, remembering that cowardly knight had been responsible for the thin white blemish marring Grissom's grizzled cheek. She waited for his nod of agreement, still lightly tracing the path of the raised, uneven brand before speaking again. "This was sewn up as well and rather sloppily. Did you have to do it yourself?"

"Sandre," he responded, his graveled whisper little more than a strained grunt.

"He is not very talented with a needle," she quipped as she pushed him gently down upon the bed and flashed a mischievous grin. "Perhaps you should extend his 'manly' education to include fine stitchery. I am sure that he would enjoy finding himself locked helplessly within the lady's salon for hours on end with needle and thread listening to the tireless chatter and gossip."

A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth and he settled more comfortably upon the mattress, dragging the blankets up to his chest before sampling from the cup Sara handed him. His eyes widened in alarm as Sara handed him her tea and boldly climbed in beside him, slipping smoothly beneath the heavy wool covers. She noticed his startled expression and her eyes dropped to her hands as she took her cup from him. "I feel safe with you."

He blinked and swallowed heavily before offering, "I can sleep on the pallet before the fire if you want the bed."

Sara shook her head; her hair curling and shimmering in chestnut waves about her face. "No, that is not what I want." She looked at him, her dark eyes pleading. "I want to sleep right here next to you."

_**Somewhere down the line  
Somewhere down the line**_

Grissom was torn. There were so many reasons why he should climb from the cozy bed and seek what meager comfort he could from the thin mattress before the fire. So many feelings clouded his mind as he struggled to find the answer, so many arguments involving morality, right and wrong, and trust. What Sara had suggested, while appealing, was forbidden and impossible. And there was also a larger issue to be considered. Sara had no way of knowing that he was highly aroused from her innocent exploration of his body. The fire she had unknowingly ignited within him was threatening to blaze out of control.

Despite of all those reasons why he should not, could not, remain by her side, there was but one chaining him fast to the bed. She wanted him to stay. For Sara's safety and peace of mind, he could control his baser mating instincts and provide the comfort she desired.

Sara watched him carefully as he appeared to be wrestling with the decision. A smile lighted her face as he finally looked at her and nodded, indicating his consent. She nestled happily beneath the large pile of blankets and the two sipped their strong tea in companionable silence.

Downstairs in the Great Hall, the massive clock Sara had noticed with some interest earlier struck midnight and the resounding twelve heavy clangs of the great hidden bell reverberated through the quiet bedchamber.

Shooting her a look of askance and brief apology, Grissom handed her his teacup and clumsily slid from the bed. He reached for his worn Psalter that was sitting atop the small table next to the bed and knelt to begin his prayers.

_At times the darkness of our soul_

_Makes even nature's colors dim;_

_Our sins we now confess, O Lord,_

_And offer you this sacred hymn._

_Have mercy Lord, absolve our guilt,_

_Just Judge of hearts, with you we plead,_

_Let not our selfish whims prevail,_

_Through love may we from sin be freed._

_Most loving Father, hear our plea!_

_You rule the world with equity,_

_Together with your only Son,_

_And with your Spirit, three in one. Amen.**1**_

Sara took advantage of the unguarded moment to openly regard the solemn knight kneeling beside the bed. She could not help but notice the calming effect the service had on him, the peacefulness that spread through him and allowed him to relax as he flowed more deeply into the familiar ritual. Occasionally his brow would crease as he pondered his words, but his voice never faltered from the smooth, easy cadence of his prayers. His eyes were closed and his thick fingers absently caressed the cover of his Psalter; he did not open it, simply held it as he recited its contents by heart.

_In finem. Psalmus David_.

_Usquequo, Domine, oblivisceris me in finem?_

_usquequo avertis faciem tuam a me?_

_quamdiu ponam consilia in anima mea;_

_dolorem in corde meo per diem?_

_usquequo exaltabitur inimicus meus super me?_

_Respice, et exaudi me, Domine Deus meus._

_Illumina oculos meos, ne umquam obdormiam in morte;_

_nequando dicat inimicus meus: Prævalui adversus eum._

_Qui tribulant me exsultabunt si motus fuero;_

_ego autem in misericordia tua speravi._

_Exsultabit cor meum in salutari tuo._

_Cantabo Domino qui bona tribuit mihi;_

_et psallam nomini Domini altissimi.__2_

Upon completion of his nightly prayers, Grissom crossed himself, touched his Maltese Cross pendant to his lips and replaced his Psalter on the table beside the bed. He arose from the cold, hard floor with considerable effort and all but fell upon the bed.

As Sara tucked the blankets around him and ensured his comfort, she fingered the bruises ringing her neck. She knew she needed to tell him, for she needed to ask something of him, but wondered about his reaction. They still had not spoken of the events at the inn, not a word had been mentioned with regard to her imprisonment and maltreatment at the hands of Tarek, nor the fact that Grissom had been forced to slay his only brother. Sara drew a great trembling breath, gathering her courage as she prepared to drag those horrifying events into the solace of their shared candle-lit sanctuary.

"Gris?" She began softly, her uncertainty causing her voice to crack on the single syllable. She waited until he turned to look at her before blurting her tale in a muddled rush. "Tarek tore my necklace off, the one you gave me, and threw it across the room when he was…he was…."

Sara's words dwindled off as she noted the storm gathering upon Grissom's noble features. His brows gathered in a severe frown as he leaned closer to inspect her neck in the dim glow of the lone taper. His fierce scowl deepened, the taut muscles in his jaw clenching into a pulsing knot as he plainly observed the imprints where slender individual links of the golden rope chain had bitten into her skin when Tarek had cruelly torn it from around her neck.

"When Sandre came to get me," she hurriedly continued, "there was no time to search for it. All we wanted to do was get out of there as quickly as possible. Please, please, don't be angry with me."

Grissom laid a finger upon her lips to quiet her nervous rambling and brushed a feather-light kiss upon the abraded flesh of her neck. "I am not angry with you, Lemman," he said quietly, soothing her mottled skin with a gentle finger. "I am angry with Tarek and filled with sorrow by what you were forced to endure at the hands of my brother." He flopped onto his back and heaved a great sigh. Sara saw that his eyes were growing distant and his mood pensive. Seeking to bring him back from the sadness that was threatening to engulf him, she plunged headlong into her request.

"May I…can I wear yours, for just a little while, until I can send someone back to the inn to find mine?" He cocked his head to the side and the cloudiness evaporated from his eyes as he regarded her open curiosity. "I feel safe wearing it, like you are always with me, caring for me, watching over and protecting me."

Grissom's face finally relaxed, the residual anger and sorrow sliding from his features at her words. The ghost of a soft grin played about his lips and he regarded her with solemn expression she could not quite decipher. He pulled his chain off and placed it around her neck atop her chemise, kissing the cross as it settled into place between her breasts. His head raised slowly as his gaze bore into hers, his blue eyes as wide and innocent as those of a newly born child. He tried to convey his jumbled thoughts to her, the vulnerability, the wondering, his reticence and fear…everything he was feeling neatly compacted into one tender, adoring look.

Sara flashed him a beaming smile and wrapped her fingers around the cross, still warm from the heat of his body. She, too, bestowed a kiss upon the burnished gold before slipping in inside her chemise, sighing sweetly as the heavier weight of his larger pendant settled securely between her breasts. As she absently rubbed the cross through the worn linen fabric, Sara had the inescapable feeling that some sort of larger, though as yet indefinable, commitment had been made.

Grissom rolled over to blow out the lone candle lighting his austere chambers and the room settled into near darkness, the only light that of the crackling fire sketching wild glowing patterns upon the bare stone walls. Sara shivered beneath the heavy bundle of blankets and Gris pulled her close to rest along his uninjured side. He nuzzled against her gently, burying his nose in her hair and breathing deeply of the soft lavender scent that was so much a part of her. He had just a moment to marvel at the serenity filling his heart and mind before Sara moved against him, stretching upwards to bestow a soft kiss along the furry line of his jaw.

Watching carefully for any sign of rejection, Sara lowered her head and touched her lips to his. Grissom's lashes fluttered and his eyes closed as he tenderly returned her affection. Despite his efforts to keep the contact chaste, Sara's impatient, hungry mouth laid waste to his noble intentions. His lips parted slightly on a silent moan and soon their tongues were sliding and flicking against the other in a sensual dance that had the Princess rubbing along her knight in an effort to deepen the contact between them.

It was with great reluctance that Grissom withdrew with a final nip and suckle along her plump lower lip. He pressed his lips warmly to her forehead as she huffed her disappointment and bent low to touch his lips to the place he knew the cross to rest beneath her gown. He pressed fleeting kisses upon her cheek and the pert turn of her nose before leaning back to nestle deeply within his pillow.

Gathering Sara securely within his arms, Grissom placed one last kiss on the crown of her head. "Sleep," he whispered, closing his eyes and tracing gentle patterns upon her back. Sara snuggled contentedly against his warm chest, her fingers absently tracing the length of the raised jagged scar as she drifted off with a satisfied smile on her face.

Grissom remained awake, his eyes greedily devouring Sara's sleep softened features as he recalled the words of the hymn he had just chanted. "Let not our selfish whims prevail, through love may we from sin be freed."3 Maybe Father Ralph was right and there was yet another way to look at God's words and God's work.

Always before he had deemed his love for Sara as selfish, something he held deep within his heart; his last and valiant hope that someday he would finally absolve himself of sin and be worthy of fully sharing himself, all of him, his love and his desires. Now, as those words filtered back through his thoughts, he could not help but question. Was his love for Sara selfish or was it the one thing that would finally set him free? Was passion truly sinful when combined with love and was such love justified in being forbidden when returned in full measure?

Hopeless though his cause still seemed, Grissom for the first time felt a warming beneath his breath and a flash of light stealing deep within his soul. Perhaps love, and faith in that mysterious emotion, was in truth all it took to bend the impossible into something attainable.

_**When I was young and it'd shine  
But I believe it's getting closer all the time  
We will find the golden road  
Somewhere down the line  
Oh, somewhere down the line4**_

1 Maxwell E. Johnson, Benedictine Daily Prayer: A Short Breviary, ed. Maxwell E. Johnson and the Monks of Saint John's Abbey, 8th Edition, Vol. 1 (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1952) 1 vols. Pages 1074-1075.

2 **Psalm 12** (1) Unto the end, a psalm for David. How long, O Lord, wilt thou forget me unto the end? how long dost thou turn away thy face from me? (2) How long shall I take counsels in my soul, sorrow in my heart all the day? (3) How long shall my enemy be exalted over Me? (4) Consider, and hear me, O Lord, my God. Enlighten my eyes, that I never sleep in death: (5) Lest at any time my enemy say: I have prevailed against him. They that trouble me, will rejoice when I am moved: (6) But I have trusted in thy mercy. My heart shall rejoice in thy salvation: I will sing to the Lord, who giveth me good things: yea, I will sing to the name of the Lord, the most high.

3 Maxwell E. Johnson, Benedictine Daily Prayer: A Short Breviary, ed. Maxwell E. Johnson and the Monks of Saint John's Abbey, 8th Edition, Vol. 1 (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1952) 1 vols. Page 1075.

4 "Somehwere Down the Line." Words and Music by John Stewart. _Bombs Away Dream Babies_ (RSO, RSO SUPER RSS6, 1979), _The Best of John Stewart_ (Polydor 527 369-2, 1995)


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Notes:** Many, many heartfelt thank yous to **Cincoflex** for her amazing beta work and unflagging encouragement and support. **Sidle77** also deserves a huge shout out for helping me keep my head screwed on straight and for all of the gentle prodding she has done along the way. And finally, I would be remiss if I did not mention **SSidleismyidol (SIMI)**. Despite the fact that SIMI is wholly responsible for derailing me and luring me away from this fic with a side-project throughout the spring and early summer, she is also the person who has been relentlessly zapping me with a taser and telling me to get off my lazy duff and finish this mess. So ladies? I owe each and every one of you a huge dose of gratitude and love because without the three of you I can honestly say that I probably would not have returned to this fic.

**Chapter Eleven**

_**I can't hold it on the road**_

_**When you're sitting right beside me **_

_**And I'm drunk out of my mind **_

_**Merely from the fact that you are here **_

_**And I have not been known **_

_**As the Saint of San Joaquin **_

_**And I'd just as soon right now **_

_**Pull on over to the side of the road **_

_**And show you what I mean**_

Grissom awoke suddenly; his body tight and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. A glance towards the window let him know that dawn had yet to light the sky and wondered idly what had roused him from his slumber. The slight weight curled against his right side brought everything back to him in a flood of memory tangled with restless desire and emotional longing. Sara was nestled snugly against him, her head upon his shoulder, her hair loose and flowing about them both. Her hand lay over his heart, her fingers occasionally moving in her sleep in the slightest of caresses across his bare skin. Her right leg was raised over his, resting intimately between his thighs.

He rolled his head and inhaled deeply, the scent of lavender filling his senses. Lying abed with Sara was the sweetest of tortures and he could not remember a time when he had been so aroused. He had not allowed himself the luxury of accepting comfort from another since he had been blamed and then exiled for the death of Rivka, Sara's mother, some fifteen years prior. He carried the guilt of her death heavily upon his conscience and did not believe himself deserving of simple human contact and comfort.

Shifting slightly, he laid a heavy hand upon his erection and rubbed fiercely in short harsh strokes in an effort to find some measure of relief. He could usually will away his base desires by reciting the Psalms or recalling one of the many scriptural lessons learned in the monastery but he knew this time all of those efforts would be in vain. The soft fragrance of Sara and her sweet weight upon his frame was more exotic, more intoxicating that the strongest of liquors he had ever sampled during his many travels. She had managed to stir feelings within him that he thought he would never have the chance to explore.

He sighed heavily, realizing he had but two choices here. He could take the matter in hand or simply let nature run its course during the night. He was no stranger to either situation and this would certainly not mark the first time he had awoken to find both his linen shorts and bedding wet and sticky, the remnants of a little-remembered, hazy dream clinging damply to his thighs. However, the mere thought of having this happen while Sara was lying beside him was more than he could bear. He was torn between choosing the lesser of two evils and willfully performing an act he had always been taught to be a sin, a lesser sin to be sure, but a sin all the same.

_**La da da da da da **_

_**La da da da da da **_

_**July, you're a woman **_

_**More than anyone I've ever known**_

Grissom gently eased from the bed, taking care not to wake Sara. Her sleep seemed to be untroubled and she needed the rest. He moved before the fireplace, his hands clenched into fists. He forced more of his weight upon his injured leg hoping that the pain would help to ease the one in his loins. His head slumped upon his chest as he realized that this would not go away simply with a force of will. He was so hard that the pain between his legs rivaled that persistent burning in his thigh.

_**And I can't hold my eyes **_

_**On the white line out before me **_

_**When your hand is on my collar **_

_**And you're talking in my ear **_

_**And I have been around **_

_**With a gypsy girl named Shannon **_

_**A daughter of the devil **_

_**It is strange that I should mention that to you **_

_**I haven't thought of her in years**_

Slowly, reluctantly, his placed his left hand upon the mantle to steady his weight as his right hand unlaced the ties of his braies and the loose linen shorts dropped swiftly from his lean hips to pool atop his bare feet. He ran the palm of his hand over the head of his erection, smearing the leaking fluid before wrapping his thick fingers around his cock and starting a slow, steady rhythm.

_**La da da da da da **_

_**La da da da da da **_

_**July, you're a woman **_

_**More than anyone I've ever known**_

Sara awakened the moment Grissom left the bed. She remained silent, stealthily watching him from the nest of blankets. She thought perhaps he had been suffering some pain from his injury but her eyes widened in shock as he dropped his shorts and took himself into his hand.

She was unable to tear her eyes away. She had thought him beautiful earlier in the evening when she had stolen the opportunity to indulge her curiosity a bit. But now, to see him fully aroused and lost within himself and his own needs, she believed him to be nothing less than magnificent. She was in awe over the sheer size of him and the ferocity with which he stoked himself, the unleashed power of the thick, knotted muscles bunching tightly in his upper arms and the ropy sinew of his forearms flexing and relaxing with each heated pass of his hand along his burning flesh.

Her breathing soon matched the movements of his pumping hand and thrusting hips as she continued to watch, feeling her thighs grow damp as that strange warmth once again pooled deep within her stomach and spread lower to stir desires she scarcely recognized or yet fully understood. Sara risked a glance at his face, reluctant to pull her eyes from the pounding, rhythmic dance he was performing, but she needed to see him, to know him, in this most unguarded and unrestrained moment.

Grissom's face was a study in haunted, painful pleasure. His eyes were closed, thin brows furrowing tightly in concentration, thick, dark lashes stuttering against his richly flushed skin with each pulsing thrust of his body. His lips were parted, soft grunts accompanying his ragged breathing, a primal, feral syncopation accenting the natural, timeless choreography existing between hips and hand, hand and hips. The faster his hand flew, the more guttural his grumbling until, for just a moment, his breath froze upon his lips and his voice seemed strangled into silence.

He threw his head back, the tendons on his neck standing out and a soft growl escaped his tightly clenched jaw as he ejaculated, the strength of his release causing him stagger a bit. Sara's mouth gaped as he erupted, unconsciously licking her lips as the milky-white substance bubbled over his fist and shot into the fireplace, sizzling upon the logs and causing the flames to dance and flicker in response.

_**I can't hold it on the road **_

_**When you're sitting right beside me **_

_**And I'm drunk out of my mind **_

_**Merely from the fact that you are here **_

_**And I have not been known **_

_**As the Saint of San Joaquin **_

_**And I'd just as soon right now **_

_**Pull on over to the side of the road **_

_**And show you what I mean**_

His head dropped back and his chest heaved as he struggled to bring his breathing under control. Finally, with a great heaving sigh, he stirred himself back to awareness. He glanced furtively towards the bed before moving to dip one of the clean linen strips still piled upon the straw pallet in the kettle of water to clean up both himself and the floor. He pulled his braies up and knotted them about his hips before limping slowly back to the bed and slipping beneath the covers.

Sara pretended to stir as she felt his arm settle about her and pull her close. "Are you well?" she whispered into the darkness, touching her lips briefly to his neck, savoring the sweat salt she tasted on his skin. She felt him nod and smiled a little to herself. "You seem restless. Is your leg bothering you?"

He smirked ruefully to himself before shaking his head and tucking her more securely into his side as they drifted off to sleep once more.

_**La da da da da da **_

_**La da da da da da **_

_**July, you're a woman **_

_**More than anyone I've ever known***_

_*****"_July, You're a Woman" Words and Music by John Stewart. (Signals Through the Glass [Capitol 2975, 1968], California Bloodlines [Capitol, ST203, 1969], The Phoenix Concerts [RCA, APL2-0265, 1974], Forgotten Songs of Some Old Yesterday [RCA, PL 43155, 1980], Gold [Wrasse Records, WRASS016, 2000], Airdream Believer [Shanachie, 8075, 1995].


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Notes**: What I said last time? Lather, rinse, repeat. I mean it as much now as I did then.

**Chapter Twelve**

**"Great White Cathedrals"**

**_Was it you all along,_**

**_good Jesus_**

**_Were you all along the right way?_**

Myria glanced up from the cutting board and the leeks she was dicing when Sara skipped into the kitchen and offered cheerful morning greetings. The older woman's hands never faltered in their smooth, practiced motions as she considered the Princess with a frank, appraising eye.

Gone were the dark smudges under her eyes and the dark purple bruise left by Tarek's heavy slap was fading into softer hues of greens and yellows. She was dressed simply in the borrowed amber gown that had been left for her and her brown eyes twinkled with an almost child-like delight as she bounced gaily upon the balls of her bare feet. Myria's attention was immediately drawn to the pendant swaying gently against Sara's chest. She knew of only one person that wore a golden Maltese Cross upon a chain and the young princess had obviously just spent the night curled beside him in his bed.

Myria pasted an innocuous smile on her face to hide the knowing smirk. "I trust you slept well, Milady?" she asked, adopting the most innocent tone she could muster.

"I did," Sara replied happily, taking in the enormous kitchen with its roaring fire and rows of gleaming iron cauldrons, copper kettles and tin pots. "'Tis a glorious morning despite the storm. Don't you agree?"

"I do indeed, Princess. More glorious for some of us than others, I'd wager," the servant replied, the corners of her mouth pulled up in a tiny grin. Sara cocked her head, her curiosity evident. With a silent nod she invited Myria to continue. "It is none of my business, mind you, but I went up to look in on you a little earlier to see how you were faring because you seemed unsettled last night and to see if you would be wanting some breakfast. You were not in your chamber and your bed did not appear to have been slept in." Sara fidgeted under the implications of Myria's words and cast her eyes to the spotless stone floor, not at all comfortable with where the conversation was heading. "Then I peeked in Lord Grissom's room to check on him because it is unusual for him to sleep so late."

Sara's mouth opened in a wordless "Oh!" and the color drained from her face.

Myria threw back her head and laughed, her ample bosom shaking with mirth. "You have nothing to fear from me, Princess, I promise," she grinned, amused by Sara's horrified expression. "I won't be carrying any tales about what I saw this morning. To tell you the truth," she added thoughtfully, "what I saw this morning made me very happy."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"In the fifteen years Milord has lived here, you are the first woman to ever enter his bed chamber, let alone share his bed. And it was not for lack of effort on some of the finer ladies' parts. Some of those women are so brazen that I worried they might try to corner Milord, lift his tunic and pull down his hosen to have their way with him. Thankfully nothing like that ever came to pass."

"I know most of those of whom you speak," Sara muttered darkly, "and have seen them in action."

"Bah," the chatelaine huffed scornfully; hands perched high upon her matronly hips. "High born those ladies might be but as far as I am concerned they are no better than common tavern wenches looking for a pretty coin and rough tumble between the sheets."

Sara smothered a giggle beneath her hand at Myria's undisguised contempt. The plain-spoken woman's coarse patter and frank opinions were welcome after so many years cloistered in court listening to the inane whisperings of those very same women striving for an air of respectability.

"But to answer your question, Lovey, if I might call you that?" She barely waited for Sara's nodding assent before plunging ahead. "You make him happy. His face always lights up when he talks about you." The older woman wiped the traces of vegetables from her hands and waddled towards the door. "And that's good enough for me. If Milord is happy then I am happy."

Myria cleared her throat and arched an eyebrow at Sara, resting her hand on the door latch. "I suspect, though, that you did not find your way in here with your bare feet just to gossip with an old woman," she commented, pulling the door open with a loud bang and bending to retrieve an earthenware pitcher from the step right outside the door. Throwing a weighty hip against the door, Myria slammed it closed before more of the blustery wind and snow outside could swirl into the kitchen.

Sara's toes curled against the cold and she shivered lightly at the chill that stole in the room. "Well," she began, edging closer to the warmth of the blazing fire, "as much as I have enjoyed our chat, there is another reason I am here. Might it be possible for me to carry a tray of breakfast up to Grissom?"

"Is he ill?" Myria asked quickly, her face clouding with concern.

"He was injured while rescuing me."

"Has he seen to it?" the older woman demanded sharply. "He tends not to care for himself."

"Really?" Sara responded with dry sarcasm. "I hadn't noticed."

The women shared a knowing smile before Sara recounted the extent of Grissom's injuries and all that had been done to treat them.

"He has a long gash that was made by Tarek's blade running down the whole of his left thigh. I cleaned and sewed the wound close for him last night and have applied a fresh poultice already this morning. He is restless, though, and I fear he is in considerable pain though he will not admit to it. His brow and cheeks are also warm to the touch." She sighed, a tough of frustration seeping into her voice. "I am trying to get him to remain in bed and rest but do not know how much success I will have. He seems anxious to be up and about."

"Bind him to the bed if necessary, Princess," Myria demanded with a stern arch of her brow. "He is not a young stag anymore and it takes his body longer to recover." She patted Sara's and promised to send Berenger up with a tray for both of them shortly.

"Why does Grissom not eat meat?" Sara asked suddenly. She felt strange questioning this woman about Grissom but he was so reticent that it was hard to learn anything from him. She had noticed at the many meals they had shared following his return from the Crusade that he had not eaten any of the meat provided, instead giving her the choicest portions while he contented himself with bread and a couple of bowls of simple vegetable soup that she could never remember ever before gracing her Father's table. "The soup last night contained none and this porridge," she continued, gesturing to the bowls Myria had placed upon the wooden tray, "which smells delicious by the way, seems to be liberally garnished with eggs, but contains no meat either."

Myria smiled gently and mopped her hand across her brow, chasing aside some errant strands of gray hair that had managed to escape the tight bun on the back of her head. "He never eats meat, Lovey. He was taught in the monastery that it is wrong to kill God's creatures simply to satisfy his hunger and he still adheres to those ways. Despite his reputation as a brutal and vicious warrior, he is truly a very gentle soul."

She chuckled to herself as she added two tall glasses to the tray. "When I try to chide him for his abstinence, he merely quotes the words of old Saint Benedict back to me: 'But let all except the very weak and the sick abstain altogether from eating the flesh of four-footed animals.'"1 Myria pulled a towel from the top of the pitcher, heedless of the snow dripping on the floor, and filled both glasses with ice-cold milk.

"Every now and then I can coax him into eating a little fish or maybe a bite or two of chicken, but that is it. If you wish some meat with your meals, however, he will not be offended nor look unkindly upon you. He understands that not everyone was raised as he and does not expect others to observe his monkish eating habits. I have some nice chickens roasting in the cookhouse outside and will be pleased to add some to your tray."

"Nay, Myria, it's not necessary but thank you," she said, giving the other woman's hand an affectionate squeeze. "You needn't go to any extra trouble for me. I am more than content to share Grissom's meal."

"Very well, Lovey. I'll send up that tray and add a teakettle and warming pan for you as well."

Sara nodded her thanks and turned to leave but stopped as another concern came to mind. "Myria, has Sandre returned yet?"

"No, Princess he hasn't," the older woman replied, her concern for the lad's welfare written plainly on her ruddy features. "Lord Grissom mentioned that he sent the boy to the Palace with Tarek's body and to let your father know that you were safe. I am hoping he got there before this nasty storm settled in and I hope that I sent enough food with him. I tell you, Sandre is always hungry and I swear he can eat twice his full weight on any given day."

"I am sure he will be fine," Sara soothed, patting the older woman's hand. "Sandre has proven to be very resourceful and he has been trained by the best."

Myria sniffed and offered a small smile. "Thank you, Lovey. I know all of that but I still cannot help but worry. He has only been with us here a short while but I am already very fond of him. He is a good lad, and he is good for Milord as well."

"Oh, and Princess?" Myria called, as Sara turned once more to leave the warmth of the cheery kitchen. "I muffled that infernal clock so that you and Lord Grissom won't be disturbed."

Sara flushed and shook her head in exasperation before resuming her trek back up the stairs to Grissom's chambers.

**_Oh, you told me you were,_**

**_but the writing was blurred_**

**_The people who told me,_**

**_they twisted your words_**

**_Saying burn, child, burn,_**

**_when in your name will they learn?_**

Sara arranged the dirty dishes back on the tray and set the tray on the floor outside of the door after she and Grissom finished a leisurely breakfast in bed. She looked over at him, propped against the headboard sipping his third cup of tea. He had managed to dress in a sleeveless black undershirt and long, loose bracco pants while she had been down in the kitchen but hadn't bothered to run a brush through his rumpled curls. Gil had been quiet most of the morning and hadn't had much of an appetite, preferring his tea to the delicious porridge Myria had prepared.

Watching him covertly as she tidied up the room, Sara tried to fathom his mood. She did not know if he was unsettled by what had happened the previous evening or if he was just not feeling well. As she prepared to ask, Grissom settled the matter by wincing and rubbing his hand absently along the bindings covering his thigh.

"Is it bothering you?" she questioned softly returning to the bed. He said nothing but Sara laid a delicate hand atop his leg and noticed that the poultice had cooled. "Should we replace that with a fresh one?" she persisted and almost fell over in surprise when he nodded his agreement. He had tried to wave off her earlier attempts to help and had grumbled when she insisted on caring for him.

As she worked on his leg, Sara plied him with questions about his vast knowledge of medicinal herbs. "How did you come to learn so much about which herbs and plants mixed with others would heal wounds best?"

"I was apprenticed to Father Ralph, well he was Brother Ralph back then and he was the Herbalist Monk at Saint Benet's Monastery."

"You certainly learned much in your two years of service there." She tied the bindings to hold the poultice in place and helped him pull his loose braccos up over his braies.

He cocked his head, confused by her statement. "I was sent to Saint Benet's when I was four and remained until right around my twelfth birthday."

"You were only four?" she squeaked, shaking her head in disbelief. "I know it is common for second or third sons to be given to a religious order as a means to find their way in life but I thought that children could not be accepted into an order until they were at least ten."

"That is true," he conceded with a nod of his head. "Many years ago a law was enacted to stop paupers and peasants from foisting their unwanted children upon the monasteries and abbeys." Grissom leaned over to place his empty tea mug on the bedside table. "However," he said, sliding back down beneath the blankets and nestling into the softness of his pillow, "when your father is a man of great wealth and influence and makes a sizable donation to the Bishop's personal coffers, the Abbot has little choice but to acquiesce and accept a lad much younger than ten."2

"And that is what happened to you?" she asked while clearing away the balms and bandages. Sara shoved her own downy pillow behind the small of her back and relaxed against the headboard while waiting patiently for him to answer.

"Yes," he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Grissom picked at a bit of pilled wool on the blanket and spat, "My parents sold me."

**_That you can't buy a soul_**

**_with his silver and gold_**

**_And a sway-backed old jackass_**

**_was all that you rode_**

Not knowing what else to do, Sara reached out and entwined her fingers with his. She hesitated, trying to decide whether or not to broach the topic. Gil's account of the events leading up to his departure to Saint Benet's differed greatly from Tarek's crazed ravings. She was not entirely sure where the truth of the matter lie, but felt certain Grissom needed to know everything his older brother had said.

"Tarek said …" she began, flinching a little as Grissom tightened his grip on her hand and whipped his head suddenly to the side to face her.

"I don't care what Tarek said," he growled harshly. "There is nothing my dear, departed brother might have said that will change what happened."

"You need to hear this and I need to say it, to start getting it all out of my system before it festers and grows as ugly as the bruises and scratches I still bear."

Sighing softly and giving her hand a gentle squeeze, Grissom nodded, the sudden flare of anger draining away as quickly as it had surged. He knew she was right and the anguish in her voice tore at his heart. He raised their knotted hands and brushed his lips across her fingers in mute apology.

"Well, he talked about a lot of things and most of what he said was hateful and frightening." Gil smoothed a thumb across her knuckles, silently encouraging her to keep going. "He was mad, Gris, ranting and raging at everyone and everything. But," she continued, carefully watching his features, "he did tell me about something he did that caused you to be sent to the monastery."

Sara drew a calming breath, held it for just a moment to gather her courage and finally blurted in a shaking rush, "He said … he said that your parents sent you away after he tried to drown you."

He reeled back as if struck, confusion registering in his eyes. He dropped Sara's hand and rolled to his back, his brows furrowed, his hand running restlessly over the bandages on his thigh. Grissom stared into the fire while he tried to process what Sara had revealed his mind racing back some thirty-odd years, sorting through fragmented memories in an effort to recall the incident of which Tarek had spoken.

"I had forgotten about that," he mumbled at last in a far-away voice, fingering a spot on his forehead hidden beneath a few stray curls. Sara gently pushed his hand away and smoothed his hair back to get a better look. She frowned as she examined the small scar, brushing a kiss upon the old wound as if to exorcise the heartbreaking memories associated with the thin, pale mark.

"He dragged me to the horse trough and shoved my head underwater. I fought him, split my head open on the edge of the gutter, but he was stronger. He held me under until my father saw what he was doing and pulled me out."

His gaze shifted to meet hers briefly before glancing away. "And I _was_ sent to Saint Benet's not long after that happened.

"He said your parents did it to protect you."

Grissom merely grunted, watching the shifting shadows on the ceiling as his mind replayed fragments of those long-ago events. He recalled distant flashes of his father hauling him out of the wooden trough, bundling him in his stout arms and rushing him into the kitchen, of his mother wrapping him in a warm blanket in the sun filled-kitchen while she bound the gash on his head and wiped away his tears, of his mother weeping while placing his clothes in a small satchel, of his father lifting him in front of him on a fine black stallion, and finally of his father leaving him in front of the enormous iron gates of Saint Benet's, a note sewn to his tunic, and wheeling to gallop off down the dusty road without a single backward glance.

**_A_****_s the bells still peal_**

**_in the great white cathedrals_**

**_Of people forgetting to feel_**

"What are you thinking?" Sara asked softly, soothing a warm slim finger over that scar on his forehead from so long ago, trying to lessen the old injury and pull him gently back to the present. "Tell me."

"That Tarek sinned and I was punished." He rolled his head to regard her with eyes as bleak as the barren, snow covered trees scratching at the lone window in the room. "That I have been forced all my life to atone for something I didn't do."

"Gris, your parents didn't send you away to discipline you, they did it to save you."

"Maybe so, but it was punishment all the same." He foundered, struggling to find a way to explain. His hands clenched the bedding, fisting and releasing handfuls of wool blanket as he searched for the proper words. "Sara, the Abbot told me that my parents never wanted to see me again and that I belonged to the Monastery. Do you have any idea what that feels like, to be sent away from home and told you can never return?

He tried to keep his tone neutral as he spoke but Sara could see the misery radiating from his eyes. Grissom still suffered from the rejection by his parents and the shame of being deemed so unworthy that he was nothing more than an object to be sold. His breathing grew ragged and he returned his gaze to the ceiling in an effort to regain some measure of control. Sara stroked a hand along his bristled jaw, smiling sadly when he allowed himself to nuzzle closer and accept what meager comfort she could offer.

"I wish there was something I could do for you, something that would take away your pain," she murmured, rubbing her thumb along the cleft of his chin

"You are," he affirmed, looking up at her with eyes as innocent and blue as those of a child. "You're here."

Sara bit her lip at his simple declaration, understanding what he hadn't said more than what he had. She pulled him closer to pillow his head upon her breasts and stroked a loving hand through his tousled hair.

"Have you seen your parents since you were first sent away?"

"After I went to live at the palace I caught glimpses of them at feasts and other official events but they neither spoke to nor acknowledged me." He sighed heavily, exhaling years of misery across her skin. "They did not even witness my dubben. As far as they were concerned, I had ceased to exist."

"Maybe it was easier for them that way."

Grissom did not respond and Sara did not push. For long moments they just lay quietly, listening to the storm howl without and the fire crackle within.

"How about now?" she finally asked. "You are a free man and a titled lord in your own right. Do you ever visit them?"

"They are both dead."

"Well, did you …"

Grissom shook his head and nestled even farther into her chest. His voice rumbled against her breasts as he implored her to stop. "Please, Sara, let it go. Old wounds are best left alone, especially when there is no way to bind them once they bleed anew."

Blanketing him with tender caresses and fleeting kisses, Sara held him tightly until she felt some of the tension start to seep from his weary frame. She mumbled sweetly to him, telling him things he needed to hear, random words of love and comfort until his full weight slumped against her and Grissom finally slipped away into a troubled slumber. Only when she was certain he was asleep did Sara give in and allow her tears to flow. She cried for herself and for the renewed memories of Tarek's cruelty, but mostly she wept for a lonely little boy forced to grow up believing he was unwanted and unloved.

**_Was it you all along green meadow_**

**_Were you all along my true home?_**

Night had fallen and the bedchamber was dark. No candles had been lighted, the only illumination provided by the glow of the fireplace, the flames dancing and flickering as wind from the raging storm occasionally drafted down the chimney. Grissom lay beneath the blankets silently observing Sara as she moved about the chamber getting ready her for bed. His intense perusal never faltered; Sara could feel his gaze upon her and quivered slightly in anticipation as she brushed out her hair, removed her dressing gown and slowly approached the bed. His brooding stare touched her senses as surely as if it were his hands caressing her skin. She had been fighting that slow-burning warmth in her lower belly since watching him the previous evening, not knowing precisely how to extinguish the persistent tingle, but certain that Grissom somehow would be the one to show her.

"Sit up," she murmured, reaching out to nudge his shoulder, "and lean forward." Grissom arched a curious eyebrow but did as she asked. Sara wiggled into the newly created space between Gil and the headboard, grinning at the tight fit. She tugged impatiently at the hem of his sleeveless undershirt. "This needs to come off." He hesitated only a moment before pulling the garment over his head and laying it across his lap.

Her slender arms snaked around his chest and her chin rested upon his right shoulder as she fiddled with something in her hands. Grissom watched her nimble fingers pop a cork stopper from a roughly fashioned earthenware bottle and immediately recognized the pungent, sticky aroma of the liniment he used to soothe his painful joints. The base, earthy smell of the tonic mingled with the clean, masculine scent of Grissom's skin and Sara inhaled deeply, the potent aromatic blend filling her senses and flaring her slow-burning arousal to a fiery need.

She poured some of the dark liniment in her hand and smeared it thickly across his left shoulder, the one he had used to batter down the door at the inn, the one she noticed him flexing and rolling off and on throughout the two days. She hummed faintly to herself as she worked the oil into his skin, her fingers kneading and pressing, her pursed lips blowing a soft kiss against the nape of his neck and delighting in his shivered response.

Enjoying the hushed serenity flowing through the darkened chamber, Sara turned her attention to Grissom's other shoulder, lavishing the tired joint with the same loving care that she had bestowed upon the other. Her fingers strayed down his arms, marveling at the bulky muscles flexing and yielding to the persistent pressure of her palms, the brute strength of his thick biceps and triceps relaxed and pliant.

Sara allowed herself a smug, satisfied smile as she felt Grissom let go and finally give in to her ministrations. His head fell forward until his chin rested on his chest and he body rocked lightly to and fro in time with her massage as she smoothed out the tense knot of muscles laddering his spine. She answered his soft grunts and groans with a teasing lick along his hairline and took a moment to lean back against the headboard and admire the glowing sheen of his skin in the flickering firelight.

Squeezing her thighs together in an effort to bank the inner fire threatening to blaze out of control, Sara slid from behind Grissom and made her way across the bed. She motioned for him to lie down and shoved the wooly pile of blankets against the footboard. Without a word she unknotted the thin laces of his braccos and brushed aside his nervous touch as she worked them down his legs, carefully edging the loose fitting pants over the thick bandage on his thigh. Sara dribbled more of the sappy liquid into her hand and began soothing it into Grissom's battle-worn knees. She worked slowly, taking immense pleasure in the rasping rub and tickle of the sparse wiry hair against the smoothness of her palms.

Sara gave his knees a final squeeze and sat back on her haunches. She finally glanced up to regard her knight with open curiosity and was stunned by the intensity of his gaze. He watched her with frank appraisal as if trying to figure out what she was going to do next and arched a silent questioning eyebrow as she deliberately wiped the excess tonic from her hands with a linen towel she had tossed on the bed earlier. Without a word she dropped the soiled towel and his sleeveless undershirt to the floor and crawled back to Gil's side, dragging the blankets with her.

**_Your grass sure was cool,_**

**_with your high mountain pools_**

**_But out on the highway_**

**_I became like the fools_**

**_Saying burn, child, burn,_**

**_when in the world will I learn?_**

Sara snuggled under the heavy weight of the blankets and inched closer to the warm body next to her until her head was pillowed on Grissom's shoulder and one long, shapely leg rested atop his furry thigh. She flashed him a soft smile and pressed a kiss into his neck as his arms tightened around her and dragged her closer still until she was practically laying full length upon him.

Unable to resist the smooth warm skin beneath her own, Sara's hands moved almost of their own volition, stroking along his flanks and flitting over his hard male nipples. Grabbing her wrist and lacing her restless fingers with his own, Grissom tugged their intertwined hands to rest over his heart. Sara rose up on an elbow, taking care not to dislodge her hand from its warm nest, and tried to read his expression in the deep shadows caused by the shivering firelight.

She leaned forward slowly, oh so slowly, and brushed her lips across his in a soft, barely there touch. Encouraged by the fact that he made no move to stop her, Sara took another quick taste, and then another. As she touched her lips to his a fourth time, Grissom finally responded, his mouth playing along the length of hers, suckling and nibbling her plump lower lip. Sara moaned with sweet satisfaction and embraced him more fiercely.

Grissom soothed his tongue across her lower lip and deepened the kiss, his hand tangling in her hair to hold her close. His earlier reticence was forgotten as Sara responded to the intimate caress by trying to wriggle still closer, seeking more pressure, more pleasure. He groaned softly, a deep guttural sound rumbling deep in his throat while he pulled her lithe form fully atop his harder form.

**_That you must stay alive,_**

**_in the cities you die_**

**_And old mother nature_**

**_just fights to survive_**

Sara broke the kiss and rolled to her side to look at his. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in his taut features, his hooded, darkened eyes glowing with an odd mixture of vulnerability and what she could only guess to be desire, his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. He caressed her arm as he watched her in return, waiting patiently for her next move. She licked her lips and laid a gentle hand on the side of his neck.

"Will you...will you touch me as a man touches a woman?"

Grissom closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. His mouth opened and closed as he searched for the proper words before shaking his head in defeat.

"Sara, Leof-mon, 'tis not my right to touch you so. As much as I adore you, I am neither your betrothed nor your chosen mate." He opened his eyes and regarded her with a solemn expression; one deeply etched into his features with regret, sadness and repressed longing. He smoothed a wispy tendril of hair behind her ear as he continued. "I fear I have taken far too many liberties and allowed things to advance too far as it is."

Sara groaned in frustration. One of the things she loved about her Black Monk was his innate nobility but in her mind this was no time to hide behind the trappings of propriety. "Bah," she huffed, her aggravation giving way to annoyance. She knew instinctively that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him and she was not about to let him withdraw behind his monkish walls of piety or hide beneath her father's robes. "You have taken no liberties with me. You have done nothing that I did not want; nothing that I did not ask or that I have not freely returned."

"But, you're right, we're not betrothed," she agreed irritably. "And why is that?" She waved aside his attempt to answer with a choppy slash of her hand. "I'll tell you why for it's really very simple. Even the most addle-pated of dolts could figure it out." Sara leveled Grissom with a stern look, blowing her hair out of her face with an agitated breath. She gripped his shoulders and shook him with enough gentle force to ensure that she had his undivided attention. "We are not betrothed because you've never bothered to ask."

Sara ended on a furious note and nearly burst out laughing at his stunned expression. A firm finger beneath his chin closed his gaping jaw and she gentled her tone. "Grissom, I have been waiting on you for years."

Finally he recovered enough to speak and his voice shook with the force of his grief. "Lemman, it is not that I have not bothered to ask, it is that I cannot. I told you that day by the stream that my desire to pay you court was impossible and forbidden and nothing has changed."

"Well then change it, Grissom," she implored.

"If only I could," he breathed with on a wistful sigh. "I have spent these last fifteen years trying to make amends for wrongs in my past and fear I am no closer to that end than when I began the journey. It is a never-ending dance."

They stood at a fragile crossroads, Sara pushing and Grissom standing firm. For several long moments they stared, brown eyes clashing with blue as each dared the other to either back down or change their mind. Sara abruptly brought the stalemate to an end by raising her kirtle to her waist and gracefully straddling Grissom's waist. Gil grimaced and bit back a moan as the damp evidence of her arousal settled firmly against his trembling stomach.

"I am going to tell you something and I want you to listen very carefully," she said in a quiet but forceful voice. "You are _**MY**_ chosen mate. I chose you a very long time ago when I was but a girl. You have always been my hero, my Black Monk, my fearless warrior. Next to you, all others fall short. Now and forever, you are my choice, my only choice."

"I am no hero, Sara," he scoffed. "I am simply a man like any other and more flawed than most."

Sara longed to disagree but knew this was not the time to enter into such a discussion with him. At the moment, all she wanted was to feel his hands upon her, caressing her in ways she had only heard whispered and giggled about by the older maidens in the castle.

"You are not listening, Grissom." She placed her hands on his cheeks and stroked the soft fur of his beard with her thumbs as she spoke. "Flawed or not, you are mine. And I have chosen you, all of you, the good and the bad, the warrior and the monk."

Taking a deep breath, she asked again. "Do you wish to touch me in an intimate manner?"

Sara watched him carefully; Grissom's inner battle raging clearly across his face until he closed his eyes gave in with one tiny, tight nod of his head.

"Then touch me," Sara moaned, stretching out and tangling her legs with his. "Touch me as a man, and not as a knight. Touch me as a man would touch a woman that he loves. Touch me, Gris, please touch me."

**_As the bells still peal_**

**_in the great white cathedrals_**

**_Of people forgetting to feel3_**

1 Br. Butterworth Boniface, The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, trans. OSB Rev. Boniface Verheyen (Atchison: St. Benedict's Abbey, 1949).

2 Council of Toledo, December, 656 AD

3 John Stewart, "Great White Cathedrals," Willard, by John Stewart, Capital, 1970.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

**"Cooler Water, Higher Ground"**

**_Oh Lord will you send me a morning_**

**_'Cause I need a little sun on my wall_**

**_Often at night when the sun's going down_**

**_I feel like giving up on it all_**

Unable and unwilling to resist the innocent sensuality of Sara's assault, Grissom returned her hungry kiss. He loosened the frayed pink ribbons binding the bodice of her kirtle and slipped a shaky hand inside. Sara shuddered and her eyes closed, a trembling flutter of dark lashes upon her rosy cheeks. Grissom's name was but a pleasured whimper upon her lips as he slowly teased a sensitive nipple with his thumb.

Grissom reluctantly ended the kiss with a tender nip, retreating just enough to remove her kirtle and gaze upon the glorious nude form spread before him on the rumpled blankets. Gil had been very aware of Sara's lithe body when he treated her injuries at the monastery but he had not allowed himself to look too closely. Now he stared, his eyes glittering as he visually devoured the perfection of her porcelain skin, the graceful length of her magnificent legs, the glistening amber fur curling darkly at the apex of her thighs.

He touched her, mumbling almost to himself, his battle-roughened hands flowing over her face and neck. He smoothed over the lingering reminders of her assault, seeing not the flaws but the only beauty of the woman beneath. "'Thy cheeks are beautiful as the turtledove's, thy neck as jewels. We will make thee chains of gold, inlaid with silver1'," he breathed with quiet reverence.

Brushing his lips across the point of her chin and nibbling at the leaping pulse in her throat, Gil slowly ran one hand down Sara's breastbone. The pads of his calloused fingers skimmed along the golden chain she wore. He watched as a single digit lightly sketched the outline of the gleaming pendant, admiring the way his cross lay heavily between her breasts, the way it glittered and gleamed with every uneven breath she drew. Grissom traced the fading bite mark on her breast, circling the vicious cuts with his tongue while muttering thickly against the dusky skin. "'Behold thou are fair, O my love, behold thou are fair, thy eyes are as those of doves. Behold thou art fair, my beloved, and comely. Our bed is flourishing2'."

Sara's fingers scrabbled helplessly along Grissom's broad shoulders, her nails scraping the back of his neck as she tried to pull him closer. He responded with a throaty growl, reclaiming her mouth with tender ferocity while sliding a hand up to massage her breasts, tweaking the excited peaks with just enough gentle pressure to pull a pleasured sigh from her parted lips.

Slowly, so slowly, Grissom slid his free hand down her sleek body, marveling at the satiny-smoothness of her skin. He distracted her with deep powerful kisses as his hand roamed lower to tangle in the silky fluff between her thighs. Sara tensed beneath his searching hand, trying to shift her hips away as images of Tarek's senseless brutality invaded her thoughts.

"Shhhh, Lemman," he soothed, tracing light patterns over the still florid scratches and bruises marring the perfection of her creamy thighs. "I won't hurt you." He placed a chaste peck upon her brow, nuzzling her ear as he whispered, "Do you want me to stop?"

Sara searched his face, her eyes locking with his. His fingers continued to sweep along her skin in gentle caresses and her apprehension faded. There was nothing but adoration and devotion in his eyes while he waited patiently for her answer.

She willed her body to relax, trusting her noble knight as she could no other. She knew Grissom would never hurt her, would never betray her heart or abuse her body. Sara ran a trembling hand along his jaw and pressed a soft kiss onto his fuzzy chin. "Don't stop."

"You are sure?" he asked, cautiously sliding his hand to explore her slick folds. "We can stop any time you feel frightened or uneasy." Grissom continued to flick a thumb over a tight nipple, watching Sara's eyes grow darker as he worked her body with tender affection.

"Don't stop," she begged, digging her nails into his arm and she began to tremble. A surprised gasp escaped her parted lips as a nimble finger found the hidden bundle of nerves at the top of her cleft. Sara writhed and moaned, her body straining for something, something she did not yet understand but knew she needed. The white-hot sensations gathered and expanded between her thighs until they finally released in a blinding torrent; a flash of lightning and heat spreading throughout her body until she lay quiet and dazed in Grissom's sturdy arms.

Grissom continued his gentle ministrations as she slowly recovered. Sara opened her eyes and regarded him with silent amazement. He graced her with a small, rare smile, his fingers still dancing upon her tender flesh as he claimed her mouth in a hard hungry kiss so full of desire and longing that he stole her breath away and sent her reeling once again.

**_Ah but rolling in the arms of my darling_**

**_Cooling her head with my hand_**

**_Oh a song comes to me when I'm dreaming_**

**_Like it's moving all over the land_**

Grissom eased away from her, propping his head on his hand as he regarded her with a thoughtful expression. "More?"

"There's more?"

He smiled at the eager lilt of her voice and shivered as she lightly pinched one of his hard nipples. Sara stroked through the sheen of sweat covering his chest, admiring the way the firelight seemed to make him glow in the darkened chamber. "Show me," she demanded impatiently, challenging him with a furious, relentless kiss.

He settled in, returning her kiss with harsh abandon while steadily increasing the circling pressure on her sensitive bud. Grissom licked his way down her sternum with warm, wet strokes, lavishing attention on the undersides of her breasts and bestowing a reverent kiss upon the pendant bouncing daintily upon her flushed chest in time with her body's restless movements. Sliding a cautious finger along her humid cleft, he mouthed the fullness of her breasts.

"'How beautiful are thy breasts, my sister, my spouse!'" he moaned against her flesh. "'Thy breasts are more beautiful than wine, and the sweet smell of thy ointments above all aromatical spices.'_3_"

Sara's eyes widened, her body twisting and quivering as Grissom drew a hardened nipple into his hot mouth and he eased a thick finger inside of her. A keening cry was wrenched from her throat he stroked and rubbed and suckled, ruthlessly heightening her pleasure until it built into an unbearable need. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she trembled violently when Gil added a second finger.

Her hips lifted in perfect synchronicity, rising and falling under the insistent plunging action of his fingers stretching and filling her with mind-numbing tension. Grissom increased the suction on her breast and circling pressure of his thumb and Sara spiraled away again, lost to everything except the brilliant waves of ecstasy flooding her body.

Grissom tenderly removed his hand and welcomed Sara back to awareness with gentle kisses along her brow. He rolled on to his back and locked an arm about her shoulder to keep her close.

**_It goes Mmmmmmmmmmmm  
For here in my heart I have found  
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm  
Cooler water, higher ground  
Cooler water, higher ground_**

Sara propped her chin on his shoulder and regarded him carefully in the flickering firelight. "What about you?" she asked, glancing at the noticeable bulge straining against his soft linen shorts. She traced the raised scar on his chest, trying to read the expressions on his face that were hidden by the deep shadows in the room. "I watched you last night, you know."

Grissom flushed crimson at her revelation, a mortified groan rumbling deep in his throat as he closed his eyes and covered his heated face with his arm.

"Don't," she said, pulling his arm away to kiss him softly. "It was one of the most breathtaking things I have ever seen."

Grissom just shook his head, refusing to meet Sara's eyes. "It was a sin."

"How on earth could something that beautiful be wrong?"

He sighed, rubbing the back of his hand along his chin as he tried to think of an appropriate response. "It was a sin because it was merely a release. I should have better control over and be able to ignore my base desires," he finally answered, still avoiding her gaze.

"So, because you are simply a man like all others, you'll be condemned to hell?" Sara said, her incredulous tone and arched brow conveying her disbelief.

"No," he chuffed with a gentle laugh. "I am in no real danger of eternal damnation, although God and the Scriptures do frown upon such acts when there is no intention to procreate,4" he said, enfolding her in a gentle embrace. "Father Ralph explained to me long ago that when a man is celibate for an extended period of time, however, such things tend to happen."

Sara regarded him with a slight frown and he could see the puzzlement in her dark eyes. His tongue peeked through his lips as he gazed into the fire and tried to find a way to explain. "I know you have spent much time with the animals at your father's keep. You have seen the changes in the male sheep and goats when they are too long without a mate?"

"Yes," she replied, understanding lighting her features. "They grow very aggressive and seek to find relief wherever they can. The shepherds normally pull them from the flock and pair them with a female."

Grissom smoothed a hand through her hair, combing through the snarled curls with gentle fingers. "Had I not done what I did last night, something similar most likely would have occurred while I slept," he replied casually, his embarrassment receding with Sara's easy acceptance of not only what he had done, but of the ordinary man he had shown himself to be. "I simply chose what I judged to be the lesser of two evils given the situation at the time."

"So, she began hesitantly, "this was not the first time you have performed such actions upon yourself?"

"No," he answered reluctantly, staring at the ceiling.

"And you never sought the comfort of a gigelot during your many travels?"

Grissom rolled his head to look at her, shooting her a deep, somber look she could not quite fathom. "Since my twenty-first year, I have known no woman."

Sara's eyes narrowed as she glimpsed a flash of sorrow in his eyes. She knew there was a story there, something larger than any vow of chastity he might have sworn that had held him in such stringent self-denial all these years. Although she really did not want to lead Grissom down another painful path, she could not resist asking, "Why?"

Shrugging lightly, as if the matter was of not great consequence, Grissom sighed, "Because God, in His infinite wisdom, has chosen not to bless me with a mate."

Sara fingered Maltese Cross resting between her breasts, turning his words over in her mind. "Have you not considered that maybe He has and you have just not realized it yet?"

**_I was born in the heat of September_**

**_Died in the cool of the fall_**

**_Oh borning and dying, we do it all the time_**

**_And it don't mean much of nothing at all_**

"I am that mate, Grissom," she stated. "You know it and I know it. Whether or not God has yet bestowed His blessing upon our union, I have chosen you of my own free will. God may not have expressly given me to you, yet, but I am giving myself to you."

Grissom shook his head violently. "No, Lemman, you mustn't."

"You keep telling me that but from my earliest memories we have always been drawn together." She pulled the pendant away from her skin and waved it before his face, forcing Grissom to acknowledge the truth behind her words. "No matter how far you roam or how long you are gone, you always find your way back to me."

"Sara," he breathed, regret coloring his words, "this gift you offer, the gift of yourself, is the most precious thing I have ever been given. But I cannot accept. You are not some common trollop from whom I would seek my ease."

"Why is that, Gris? What makes me so different? Is it because I am a Princess?"

"That is part of it …" he began before Sara silenced him with a scathing look and biting comment.

"Oh, so if I were just a common farmer's daughter," she harshly accused, waving her hand in the air for emphasis, "you would seek me out for a tussle among the sheets, is that it?"

"No. I could never dishonor you like that, Leof-mon, be you a Princess or a serf. He wrapped her hand in his, twining their fingers together as he spoke. "It is not what you are, but who you are that I treasure."

"Then why?"

"Because … I … I …" His voice trailed off and he sighed, irritated with his inability to articulate what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

Sara closed her eyes and drew a long breath, feeling every bit as frustrated as her knight. "Did what we just do feel like a sin?" She did not wait for him to respond before plunging ahead. "It felt right, did it not? Like it was something that was supposed to happen?"

"Sara, just because something feels right does not make it so."

"Is this something you are going to regret on the morrow, something you will need to confess and repent for?"

He was silent for several long moments, watching the play of their intertwined fingers as he thought. Sara was correct. Being with her, being intimate with her felt more right than anything he had ever done in his life. He finally shifted his eyes to meet hers, blue and brown colliding as he whispered an honest, "No."

Sara smiled at his answer and placed a quick peck on his lips. "God-given nor not, Grissom, I AM your mate, your other half. Without you I am incomplete. I always have been and I always will be."

Her hand slid up his thickly muscled thigh, her nimble fingers toying the laces of his braies before deftly untying them. Sara slipped her hand inside the loose shorts and traced the length of his erection. "Is it permissible to touch you here?"

She watched his face tighten and understood he was at war with himself, struggling against what he had been taught, the vows of obedience and chastity that had always guided his life, what he desired and the wealth of emotion she had managed to unleash within him. She waited, her intuition telling her not to push while he fought his inner battle. Her fingers feathered lightly over his leaking shaft, a gentle reminder of what she was offering, before snaking upwards to tickle around his navel and smooth along the fine line of silken hair disappearing beneath the band of his shorts.

Grissom finally nodded. He drew a ragged breath and squeezed his eyes shut as Sara purposefully slipped her hand beneath his braies, her cool fingers a welcome relief upon his heated flesh. "Do you want me to touch you here?" He nodded again, one tight bob of his head, and gave himself over to her.

"Gris," Sara implored softly, her fingers rubbing and teasing, "please, show me how to make you feel good. Show me how to do to you what you did to me."

**_Now there's no one looking over my shoulder_**

**_No one's putting nothing on me_**

**_You know sometimes I even believe it_**

**_And I know how it feels to be free_**

With a strangled moan of surrender, his hand covered hers, his powerful fingers banding around hers as he showed her his stroke, teaching her his personal rhythm while he hissed a ragged breath and fought to hold back his raging passion. He pulled his hand away, his fingers tunneling through the sweaty hair at the nape of her neck as Sara continued to pump steadily along his heated length.

Sara watched him, his hips thrusting in time with her movements, the contrast of her pale hand flowing along his angry red cock, his strong white teeth cutting harshly into his lower lip with enough force to draw blood. Using a thumb to work his lip free, she smeared across the deep impressions, sighing softly when Grissom sucked her bloodied digit into his mouth.

Without warning, Grissom reached down and stilled her hand, rolling them over so he rested fully atop her, his weight pinning her to the mattress. He fumbled between their bodies, tightening the laces of his braies with shaking hands. Sara opened her legs and allowed his hips to settle more snuggly between her damp things, responding to the restless motions of his body with subtle gyrations of her own. Gil grunted at the heat and moisture rubbing so sweetly against him, swallowing heavily as he gritted a single question. "Do you trust me, Lemman?"

"You know I do," she breathed and Grissom nodded, caressing her sex with slow gentle thrusts of his hips, watching her face intently as he stroked along her seam and nudged her sensitive bud with every measured push of his tense body. Sara's back arched; her spine curled off the mattress and she threw her head back, loving the delicious friction, the feel of his sodden braies rubbing so sensually, so rhythmically, against her tender flesh.

"We are … we are … wilcweme?" he murmured, watching her carefully for any sign of fear or distress.

"We are so wilcweme, Gris, so very wilcweme," she smiled, amused by his choice of words. Content did not even begin to cover all that she was feeling.

Gil's arms slid beneath her back and his hands curved around the tops of her shoulders as he sought more leverage, more of the exquisite pressure. He pressed heavily atop her, his smooth chest sliding against her tight nipples with the driving force of his hips. He buried his head into her neck, his beard scraping and abrading her tender skin as he murmured helplessly between sloppy kisses. As his pace quickened and his control deteriorated, he unwittingly lapsed into Latin but Sara understood enough of his hoarse ramblings to piece together what he was saying.

Behold my beloved speaketh to me: Arise, make haste, my love, my dove, my beautiful one, and come.5

Sara felt the delicious tension spreading throughout her body and clutched at his flexing back, trying desperately to pull him even closer as the waves of growing pleasure finally erupted with blinding white flashes behind her closed eyelids. With a low, guttural growl of complete satisfaction rumbling in her ear, Grissom shuddered violently and Sara felt the scorching flood of his release pulse through his shorts and smear across her belly.

**_It's like Mmmmmmmmmmmm_**

**_For here in my heart I have found_**

**_Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm_**

**_Cooler water, higher ground_**

**_Cooler water, higher ground_**

Grissom slumped wearily onto the mattress, his whole body sticky, sweaty and thoroughly sated. His heart was still racing from the force of his release as he struggled to open his eyes and meet Sara's adoring gaze. She brushed a peck against his lips and smiled, deepening the kiss while tracing a single loving finger over his exhausted features. He returned her affection with a languid swipe of his tongue and tried to rise and remove his wet braies.

Sara pushed him firmly back into the pillows and rose from the bed. Mimicking his actions from the previous night, she dipped a towel into the kettle of water still warming on the hearth and returned to bathe his body as best she could, taking extra care while pulling his shorts down over his injured thigh. She wet another linen cloth, tended to her own needs and tossed her kirtle over her head before helping him don a clean pair of braies.

As she settled back beside him and burrowed snuggly beneath the blankets, Sara felt the minute trembling lingering in his muscles as he pulled her closer and lightly kissed her temple. She ran her hand along the length of his torso, hoping to ease him into a peaceful slumber.

"How do you feel?"

In response he wrapped his hand around hers and placed a fleeting kiss across her knuckles. "Thank you," he muttered, his words slurred as he fought to remain awake.

"For what?"

"For being here," he yawned sleepily, "for being you."

Sara smiled to herself, wrapping herself more tightly about his stocky frame, their knotted hands resting softly over his heart. She was filled with an overwhelming sense of contentment that she did not fully comprehend. She still might not know much about him and his past, but she finally had a hint of what was in his heart and that was enough.

**_And there are hymns in the whims of the lonely_**

**_And here in my heart I have found_**

**_Hymns in the whims of the lonely_**

**_And it's cooler water, higher ground_**

**_Cooler water, higher ground_**

1 Song of Songs 1:9-10 (D-R)

2 Song of Songs 1:14-15 (D-R)

3 Song of Songs 4:10 (D-R)

4 The Story of Onan. Genesis 38:6-8

5 Song of Songs 2:10 (D-R)


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**Oh wind upon the window**_

_**There's a sign upon the door**_

_**I'm going home**_

_**I'm finally going home**_

Dawn broke fresh and bright as the winter storm had finally blown itself out leaving behind bitter cold temperatures and waist-high drifts of snow. Sara awoke to the bright sun filtering through the window. She lay quietly for several moments, savoring a newfound awareness of her own femininity and the blissful lethargy that had settled in her bones. Her nipples were tender, her neck chafed from the constant rhythmic brush of her lover's beard against her skin and between her thighs a strange but not wholly unwelcome sensitivity she had never before experienced. For the first time in her life she felt like a woman, strong, powerful and loved.

Sara yawned lazily and indulged in a luxurious stretch before rolling to her side to greet her bedmate. The cheery "Good Morning" and gentle smile flitting on her lips faded quickly as she gazed at the restless man lying beside her. Grissom's skin was flushed, his head rocking slightly on the pillow as he mumbled to himself. Tight lines of pain were deeply etched around his eyes and mouth and he fumbled with the bandages on his thigh, pulling and tugging in an attempt to tear them away. She touched his face to try to soothe him and pulled back as if burned; his skin was hot, dangerously hot.

Scrambling from the bed and nearly tripping over the tangle of blankets in her haste, Sara snatched up her dressing gown and raced towards the door. She threw open the sturdy portal with a loud bang and jumped back in fright. Standing on the other side of the door, one hand poised to knock and looking just as startled as she, Berenger bore a heavy wooden tray loaded with breakfast. Sara beckoned him into the bedroom with an impatient wave and asked him to fetch Myria.

"Grissom is ill," she explained hurriedly, "and I will need her assistance."

Berenger dropped the tray on the cluttered worktable with a loud clatter of dishes and utensils, not caring about the steaming porridge that sloshed over the sides of the brimming bowls as he ran out the door in search of Myria. Sara snatched up a bowl of water lying beside the hearth from the night before, grabbed a length of linen cloth from the work table and hurried back to Grissom's side. She wet the cloth in the water and pulled the blankets down to his waist, bathing his face and chest with the cool liquid in hopes of reducing the raging fever.

"Sara."

She looked down at the sound of his voice, startled by the intensity burning like a bright blue flame within the depth of his eyes.

"Are you really here? Or are you merely another schade(1) sent to torture me and remind me of all I have lost; all I will never have?"

He gingerly grasped her fingers, fearing she would dissipate in a wisp of smoke the moment he made contact with her soft flesh. He pressed his lips to her pulse point, felt her life force thrumming beneath the lavender scented skin and looked up at her with wide-eyed wonder.

"You must be real. I have never before been able to feel the gostes(2) haunting me." He frowned sharply, confusion swirling in his eyes as he fought to distinguish between his fevered dream visions and the realty of Sara's presence.

"How are you here? Did you blow in with the northern wind?" He glanced towards the window, clearly puzzled by the bright sunlight. "Where is the storm? I remember riding through the snow … you were on my lap …"

His voice trailed off and his grip slackened. Sara thought he had slipped back into the depths of the fever until he started singing softly.

_Blou northerne wynd!_

_Send to me my sweeting!_

_Blou northerne wynd!_

_Blou, blou, blou!_

Sara paused in her ministrations and returned the linen cloth to the bowl on the bedside table with a squishy plop. She had never heard Grissom sing before and was pleasantly surprised by the rich quality of voice. She perched on the edge of the bed, quietly watching, wondering at the faraway look in his eyes as he continued with his song.

_Radiant in her chamber is the fair lady I know_

_She is so stunning to behold_

_That this lady overpowers me_

_A fair and noble pleasure_

_Never have I encountered_

_A woman of flesh and blood_

_Who could be more lovely_

_In all this splendid world_

_Blou northerne wynd!_

_Send to me my sweeting!_

_Blou northerne wynd!_

_Blou, blou, blou!_

Grissom rolled his head on the pillow to regard her with a soft expression. His eyes were tinged with innocence, his face guileless as he reached for her. Shaking fingers traced her features in rhythm with the song, the heat of his touch burning down her neck and across her shoulders before enfolding her hand within his and dragging it to rest over his heart.

H_er luminous cheek is alight_

_Like a lantern in the night_

_Her face gleams so bright_

_So fair is she, and fine_

_A lovely neck she has, to embrace_

_Her arms and shoulders are all men could wish for_

_And fair fingers to enfold_

_Would to God she were mine_

_Blou northerne wynd!_

_Send to me my sweeting!_

_Blou northerne wynd!_

_Blou, blou, blou!_

A look of great sorrow passed over his features and he abruptly released her hand. Grissom's gaze shifted and the corners of his mouth turned down as he stared into the fire. Sara stroked his chest gently, trying to bring him back from wherever he had gone and banish the sudden melancholy that had fallen over him as heavily as the woolen blankets on the bed. His voice dropped to a husky, choked whisper as he chanted the final verse.

_I petition Love again and again_

_Saying how Sighing has followed me_

_And logic threatens to overpower and destroy me_

_As if he could_

_And Sorrow would keep me in dire bondage_

_To this fair creature_

_Shamelessly and against all the rules_

_Until my life's end (3)_

Grissom closed his eyes and turned his head, a single tear slipping down his cheek as he drifted away once more. Sara clasped his hand and brushed a kiss across his knuckles, her heart breaking at the depth of the emotional pain he had revealed. She allowed herself a moment of misery before strengthening her resolve. She might not know what it was that Grissom felt was keeping her from him, but she vowed to herself that she would do everything in her power to let him know that she truly loved him.

Finding a renewed sense of purpose in her self-avowed mission of making Grissom feel good and loved, Sara wiped the tears from her own face with the hem of her sleeve and reclaimed the linen cloth from the bowl sitting on the night table. Viewing him for the first time in the full light of day, she allowed her eyes to roam and take in every inch of his masculine body as she bathed his face and torso with the wet, tepid cloth. The deep shadows usually shrouding the bedchamber had hidden much. Never before had she noticed how many old injuries stood in scarred testament of his harsh career as a knight warrior. His body was like a book she realized, each blemish carved into his skin just another chapter telling a different tale of a life lived hard and of the constant danger and hardship he had experienced.

Still, the scars did nothing to detract from the overall beauty of the man. If anything, they added a certain raw charisma and extra depth of character to his thickly muscled form. She marveled at the powerful body resting quietly beneath her hands, the solidity of his broad chest and bulky strength of his arms. Sara flushed as she recalled the slide and rub of that firm, hard body against hers, the vigorous flex and bulge of the coiled muscles beneath her fingers, the searing heat and smooth flesh thrusting against her softer frame. She enfolded his limp hand in hers, turning it over to regard the rough calluses and battle toughened skin. Those hands, capable of wielding a sword with enough force to sever a man's head cleanly from his body had been infinitely gentle while initiating her into the shared intimacies of men and women.

Sara shook her head sharply to dispel the tender memories of their lovemaking. Grissom needed her strength; not some mooning maiden skittering about like a mare in heat. There would be time enough for that later, time enough for love and all that entailed once he was well.

Frustrated by her inability to do more, Sara continued to care for him as best she could. She dribbled weak tea between his parched lips and rubbed his throat to help him swallow. Myria delegated all of her normal duties to other women of the estate and became a constant presence in the bed chamber, making sure the teakettle was full, keeping a small pot of thin porridge warming on the hearth and making sure that a supply of herbs, goose grease and fresh bandages were always available.

Changing the poultice and cleaning the wound grew more problematic as the day wore on and Conrad or Berenger were often called upon for assistance. Grissom's thigh had swelled to nearly twice its normal size and a stream of yellowish liquid began seeping from between the small neat stitches. Even Conrad, who was generally as stoic and unflappable as Gil, was often forced to turn his head and cover his nose when an old poultice was removed in an attempt to escape the putrid stench of decaying flesh.

Sara wracked her brain, seeking some small tidbit of knowledge that might prove helpful. She was sure Grissom could tell her but sadly he was beyond being able to offer any sort of instruction. Oh, as a princess, she knew plenty about stitchery, how to set a proper table for an elegant feast, how to play the games at court, how to dress for grand occasions and even how to prepare a passable meal, but none of that proved very useful when it came to caring for her ailing knight. Her education had not included such practical matters as medicine and healing.

As afternoon waned into evening and Grissom's health worsened, Sara realized that her meager efforts were failing and summoned Berenger to the chamber.

"Berenger," she said, hints of the exhaustion and disappointment she felt coloring her words. "I need you to do something for your uncle."

"Anything, milady," he replied with a slight bow.

"Saddle a horse and ride as quickly as possible to St. Benet's. Ask for Father Ralph; tell the monk at the gate that you are Grissom's nephew and that should ensure you an audience. Explain the situation and ask Father Ralph if he can spare either a healer or an herbalist."

Sara sank down in a chair and ran a shaking hand across her brow. "I am at a loss, Berenger. I don't know how to help him."

"'Twill be fine, milady, you'll see," the boy said quietly, taking a hesitant step forward and patting Sara's shoulder awkwardly. "I'm sure he knows you're doing all you can."

She gave him a sad little smile and placed her hand over his for just a moment, giving a gentle squeeze to convey her thanks. "Given the circumstances, you can drop the milady. I am just Sara, someone who loves your uncle as much as you do."

**_Oh will you love me like before_**

**_When I was in Baltimore?_**

**_An Angel on the road shoulder_**

**_Knows the way home_**

The long night passed fully into morning before Berenger returned with Father Ralph, Brother Timothy and a young novice named Levi who was just sporting the fuzzy beginnings of a beard. The two younger men started laying out a vast assortment of herbs, salves and elixirs before the hearth as Father Ralph walked slowly towards Sara.

"Father Ralph," Sara breathed, rising from her chair by Grissom's bed to greet the elderly Abbot. "I am so relieved to see you. I had hoped that you would be able to spare a healer. I never expected you to make the journey yourself."

"There are others fully capable of tending the abbey while I am gone," the Abbot replied warmly, returning Sara's embrace. He gave her a final squeeze before placing his hands on her shoulders and pulling back so that she could see the depth of emotion on his face and taste the sincerity of his words. "Nothing save my own death could keep me from Gil when he is in need."

Sara held his gaze, her dark eyes radiating her own dedication and devotion to the ailing knight mumbling incoherently beneath the many layers of blankets. "Then we are of like mind and understand each other completely."

"Step back then, child, and let them work," Father Ralph said gently as he wrapped an arm around Sara's shoulders to lead her away. "Come sit with me and have a cup of tea. I promise Gil is in good hands. Brother Timothy has learned his craft well."

Sara cast an apprehensive glance towards the bed as Grissom started muttering again, thankful that his words were largely unintelligible.

"Relax, Princess," Father Ralph chuckled. "You have my solemn oath that the brothers will carry no tales. Any secrets Gil might happen to reveal shall remain safely within this chamber." He grinned mischievously, his pale blue eyes sparkling with good humor. "We are monks, remember? We are bound by an oath of silence."

"Abbot?"

Father Ralph turned in response to the soft summons, his fading grin replaced by a worried grimace when he saw Brother Timothy frowning darkly at Grissom's now exposed thigh. The Abbot moved swiftly across the room, his black robes billowing about his with each hurried stride. He drew a ragged breath as he caught his first glimpse of the actual injury.

"'Tis as I feared; the leg festers," he said as Sara hurried to his side. "See the red lines stretching away from the wound towards both hip and knee?" he asked, looking at her while pointing a finger at the offensive marks. "His blood is poisoned."

Father Ralph ran a hand across his bald pate and turned back to Brother Timothy. "We will need to remove the stitching and lance the wound. I am thinking that there still might be something inside that is defeating the healing efforts of the poultice." He then beckoned to Myria who was hovering worriedly in the background. "Myria, you will need to fetch us some stout hands. What we are about to do is going to cause Gil a great deal of pain and he will need to be held fast to the bed."

Father Ralph knelt by the side of the bed and gently laid his hands on either side of Grissom's face to get his attention.

"Fa' Ralph?"

"Yes, Gil," the older man smiled. "I am here."

"Cold"

Father Ralph ran an affectionate hand through Grissom's hair, speaking to him as a father would a young child. "I'm sorry, son, I know you are." He silently comforted the ailing man before speaking again. "Gil," he continued, his tone growing more serious, "you need to listen to me very carefully. Brother Timothy and I are going to help you but it is going to hurt. Do you understand? I need you to be strong and fight through the pain. Will you do that for me?

"No," he moaned, shaking his head free from the Abbot's grasp. "Need … need…" Grissom struggled to sit up, his eyes searching wildly around the room. "Sara?"

"She is right here, Gil." Father Ralph crooned, easing him back against the downy pillows and beckoning Sara forward. "She did not leave you." Gil relaxed as Sara took his hand in one of hers and raised his knuckles to her lips. The knight breathed a contented sigh, giving Sara's hand a gentle squeeze in return.

**_As I write to you this letter_**

**_There's just one thing I can say_**

**_I'm going home_**

**_I'm finally going home_**

Conrad stood a the head of the bed, holding Grissom's shoulders firmly to the mattress while Berenger and Levi each had a firm grip on one of Gil's ankles. Sara shoved all of the pillows to one side and hiked up her gown up around her thighs so that she could cradle her lover's head in her lap. She ruffled her fingers through his hair and stroked her hands down his burning cheeks, calming him with tender, affectionate words.

Father Ralph donned a sturdy work apron over his black woolen robe and used Myria's best sewing shears to carefully cut through neat row of stitches holding the wound close. He walked to the fireplace, pulled a long thin knife from the coals, and returned to the bed. After crossing himself and offering a brief prayer for strength and guidance, the Abbot swiftly plunged the glowing blade into the upper end of the wound.

A noxious stream of blood and pus shot out from the wound, the foul stream splattering Father Ralph's apron. Grissom growled in pain, his back arching off the bed with such force that Conrad was thrown to the floor.

"Hold him steady," Father Ralph barked as he hurried to open the rest of the wound, "lest he further injure himself."

Brother Timothy hurried to the head of the bed and managed to catch one of Grissom's flailing arms and pin it to the mattress while Conrad picked himself up off the floor and grabbed the other. The rancid stench of infected flesh and tissue nearly overpowered Sara as she struggled to keep Gil's head in her lap. She gagged at the fetid odor permeating the chamber and fought to maintain control of her stomach.

Father Ralph finished opening the wound and probed deep inside the long gash with a small, sharp knife. Grissom twisted against the deep pain, the thick muscles in his thigh jumping and quivering as he sought to free himself from the hands holding him fast. The tendons in his neck stood out like thick ropes, his jaw tightly clenched. Gil's eyes were squeezed shut against the pain but twin tears managed to escape the corners of his eyes and slip down his face to disappear into the graying curls at his temples.

Sara traced the path of one tear with her lips, nuzzling sweetly against his fiery skin. "Shhh. It will be over soon, I promise."

"Hurte."

"I know, love," she murmured, conveying her sympathy in soft kisses along the line of his fuzzy beard. "Just a little longer and it will all be over."

"Love?"

"Yes, you are my love."

"I am … brusten (4)," he confessed in a hoarse voice, looking up at her and willing her to see the truth in his fever-bright eyes.

"You'll be fine, louyere (5). Father Ralph and Brother Timothy will have you well again very soon."

"No," he whispered, struggling to free his right arm from Conrad's vice-like grip. Sara nodded and the servant relaxed his grip. Grissom wrapped his fingers around her wrist and dragged her hand across his chest until it rested over his heart. "Brusten."

"It's okay, Gris," she said softly, stroking his beard. "I still love you and always will, no matter how brusten you think you are."

Sara choked back a sob and glanced cautiously around the room to see if anyone else had heard Grissom's painful admission and her soft affirmation of love. All other eyes, however, seemed to be fixed firmly on Father Ralph who was still probing the raw gash. He carefully extracted some small threads and a larger piece of cloth that had most likely once been part of the braccos Grissom had worn the night he dueled with Tarek. He finished cleaning the wound and beckoned to Brother Timothy. "Fetch me the tincture of myrrh."

"Gil brought back a small supply of myrrh resin from the crusades and it has just now fermented enough to release its full healing potential," Father Ralph explained to Sara while wiping his hands on a fresh towel. "It is very strong, though, and it will feel like his leg is on fire when it first touches the wound. But, it is necessary as myrrh is a powerful cleanser and will gradually help to deaden the pain."

He accepted the small bottle from Brother Timothy and applied the fragrant liquid with his fingers, working the stinging astringent in and around the open wound with careful precision. The pain from the application of the myrrh finally proved too much for Grissom's weakened body to handle and he slid in to the blessed depths of unconsciousness.

"'Tis just as well," the Abbot sighed as he washed his hands again. "We will need to start applying poultices, one right after the other. And yes," he said, capturing Sara's eyes with his own, "it will be painful, but we need to draw out all of the poison before we stitch the wound close again."

Berenger was sent to the kitchen for more water and linen strips while Conrad went to fetch more firewood. Levi busied himself laying out an assortment of dried herbs that Brother Timothy tossed into a heavy iron cauldron to simmer before mixing them with goose grease to form the thick, hot salves.

They worked in shifts throughout the remainder of the evening, none of those laboring over the gravely ill man taking much time to rest or nibble from the wooden trenchers Myria had placed on the cluttered work table. Timothy and Levi work as one pair while Sara assisted Father Ralph. Myria and Berenger were in and out of the chamber often to check on Grissom's wellbeing and ask if additional supplies were needed. Conrad and John, a son of one of the tenant farmers on Grissom's land, keep a steady flow of water, firewood and clean bandages coming.

When it became obvious that Grissom was resting a little easier and had ceased his tortured thrashing, Father Ralph instructed Brother Timothy to stitch the wound closed again with a needle and thread that had been soaking in a small bowl of Saint John's Wort. They applied a final poultice atop the stitching and the Abbot sent the healer and the novice to the chapel to pray and then ordered them both to get some rest. He and Sara would remain and keep watch over the stricken knight.

**_Oh you can be the window yeah_**

**_Or you can be the door_**

**_An Angel on the road shoulder_**

**_A light upon the shore_**

Father Ralph and Sara retired to a shadowed corner of the bedchamber to nibble on some bread and cheese that Myria had left and sip a cup of strong lavender tea. Both knew they should be resting, for the day had already been long and stressful and the night was far from over, but neither could bring themselves to leave Grissom.

_"Sara, my Sara. 'Tis wrong. And impossible. And forbidden._

_But...I love her._

Father Ralph looked kindly at Sara, noting the profound sorrow in her dark eyes. She clenched her hands tightly as a lone tear stole down her cheek.

"You knew not how he felt?"

Sara shook her head and swallowed the sob rising in her throat. "I suspected, but he has never told me," she sniffed, swiping miserably at the tears slipping down her face.

"He might not have said it yet, but that pendant around your neck speaks more loudly than his words ever could and bears the proof of his devotion. He has given you something of himself, something of great meaning that pulls together all of the oftentimes contradictory elements making him who he is."

Sighing loudly, Sara rubbed the pendant between her thumb and index finger. "Why does he think it is so wrong to love me?"

"Oh, child, he has loved you from the moment you first entered into this world. As you have grown and changed throughout the years, so have his feelings for you." The Abbot paused to savor a sip of tea. "It is wrong in his eyes because he is so much older. He understands that his remaining days as a warrior are numbered, that someday very soon someone younger and stronger will best him upon the plain of war. His life is winding down and yours is just beginning."

Sara let the Maltese Cross drop back between her breasts and stared at Father Ralph in confusion. "But ... he is not old. He still has many years ahead of him."

"Were he a man of peace, that would be true," he nodded. "But, as a feared knight, his days are coming to a close. Too many battles and too many wounds have conspired to slow him down. 'Tis just a matter of time," he shrugged, as if casually accepting Grissom's seemingly inescapable fate. "He knows it and frankly he welcomes it. He does not wish to fight anymore."

Disturbed by the morbid turn the conversation had taken, Sara sought to change the topic to something more pleasant. She certainly did not want to sit and contemplate her lover's eventual death. "I do not mean to seem forward or rude, Father Ralph, but how do you know all of this about him? Grissom rarely speaks."

"He has returned to the monastery often these many years since his departure to bring me new herbs that he has found to be beneficial for various maladies."

"Like the myrrh?"

Father Ralph nodded absently, stretching his legs and massaging his aching knees. He was not a young many any more and the extended periods of standing and kneeling while tending to Grissom were taking a toll. "And sometimes he has come to simply drink tea and talk, make use of the confessional or receive the sacraments."

He stood stiffly, walking over to the hearth to retrieve the kettle resting in the warming pan. The Abbot poured two more cups of strong tea and handed one to Sara before settling once again in his straight-backed wooden chair.

"I was a young man, barely twenty-five, when Gil came to Saint Benet's. I served as apprentice to Brother Matthew, the herbalist monk and chief healer before me. Brother Matthew had just passed on when Gil arrived. For eight years, he and I were constant companions. My workshop was the only place where he could speak openly and ask questions. All other times, or in the presence of the brothers, he had to remain silent."

The Abbot's tired face grew soft with the warmth of his memories. "I watched with a father's pride as Gil grew from a small lad to nearly manhood. Oh, you should have seen him back then," he recalled with a fond smile, "with his mop of golden ringlets and bright blue eyes, questioning everything and wanting to know how everything worked. He was such an intelligent boy and yet so somber. Even then he carried about him an air of melancholy, as if his soul had lived before and he remained bound to some past suffering." Father Ralph scratched his beard, as his mood grew more pensive. "Many times I have questioned the wisdom of allowing a child so young to be accepted among us and many times I have regretted the decision to allow him to leave."

"Tarek told me that Gris left because my grandfather felt my father needed a companion, someone to help rein in my father's wild tendencies." Sara said softly.

"Well, yes that is true," be chuckled, flashing her a quick grin. "Your father was quite wild and impetuous back in his younger years. But," he continued, sobering again, "it was a mistake – well, not so much a mistake, but a decision that has led to much unhappiness for Gil."

"Why do you say that?" Sara asked while nibbling on a crust of bread.

"Right before your grandfather summoned him to the palace, Gil had just taken his vows to become a novice."

"Wait," Sara said, holding up her hands. "Was he not only twelve when that happened? I thought young men had to be at least as old as Levi before they were allowed to take such an oath."

"It was a controversial decision on the part of Father Thomas to allow him to do so. But, Gil's situation was unique in that he had come to us at such a young age. Father Thomas had three very valid reasons for allowing Gil to progress so rapidly. First, there was Gil's extraordinary intelligence and serious demeanor. He would have been a great asset to our monastery. Second, Father Thomas seriously doubted that Gil would ever choose to leave Saint Benet's simply because he had nowhere to go. Gustav, Gil's father, had made it perfectly clear when he first left Gil with us, that under no circumstances was he ever to return home. I do not know the full story; Gil has never shared that and I am not sure that he even knows but …"

"He knows now."

The Abbot gave Sara a startled look and waved a hand for her to continue.

"Tarek tried to kill him" she replied in a flat voice. "His parents sent him to the monastery to protect him."

"And you know this how?"

"Tarek told me while he was holding me captive" she sighed wearily. "I asked him why he hated Gris so much and he more or less recounted his whole life story for me." Sara shuddered, seeing again in her mind's eye the look of crazed hatred on Tarek's face. Shaking her head to dispel the images, she continued to speak, the exhaustion of the past two days clearly evident in her tone. "Anyway, when I asked Gris about it a couple of days ago, he finally remembered. Well, he remembered that Tarek tried to drown him and that he was sent away shortly after that. He never thought the two events to be related before."

"Thank you for telling me," he said quietly. "I had always wondered." The Abbot pulled at his beard and thought for a moment. "Did Tarek answer you?"

She shrugged. "He hated Gris simply because he was there."

The two sat quietly for several moments while the Abbot mulled over everything she had revealed. Sara cleared her throat and broke the silence with a soft question. "What was Father Thomas' third reason?"

"Father Thomas had grave doubts that Gil would ever be able to adapt to life outside our cloistered walls," came the weary reply. "He was raised so differently than most children, was so isolated for so long, that the Abbot thought keeping Gil among us would be best for him."

"What do you think? Should he have remained?"

"I cannot answer for Gil has made much of himself. Sadly, he has been forced to a heavy price for his success."

**_An Angel on the road shoulder_**

**_Knows the way home_**

**_Clicking off the miles yeah_**

**_That I have been before_**

**_Oh you can be the window yeah_**

**_Or you can be the door_**

**_An Angel on the road shoulder_**

**_A light upon the shore_**

Sara's forehead puckered in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Gil would have been content had he remained among us. I don't know if he would have necessarily been happy, but he would have been satisfied and comfortable. There is no doubt in my mind that he would have excelled; had he remained he would be the first choice to succeed me as Abbot upon my passing." Father Ralph paused to take a bite of cheese and wash it down with some tea. "Out here, however, all that has been done to him and all he has done, all that he has seen and all that he has become has hardened him, forced him to hide who he truly is in order to survive."

"We are back to where we started then," she said, nodding her acceptance of what he had said. "We are back to the difference between the man and the knight."

"Yes," the Abbot agreed. "I fought both Father Thomas and your grandfather because I thought it best that Gil remain at the Abbey. While he has known some great happiness in his life, those occasions have been fleeting and far too rare. For many years I remained convinced that I had somehow failed him, that had I fought harder he would never have known the sorrows he has been forced to endure."

"You sound as if you now have some doubts," she observed in a quiet voice. "Do you no longer think that?"

"I am torn, Sara, for I see Gil standing at a great crossroads not knowing which way to turn. He has before him an opportunity to find the greatest happiness he has ever known but the pursuit of that happiness could also bring him the greatest suffering he has ever born."

Father Ralph got to his feet and began pacing about the darkened chamber. "Sara, I am the nearest Gil has ever come to having a real father, or even a mother for that matter. In many ways, I am his only family. I have taken it upon myself to look out for Gil and to protect him as much as possible."

Father Ralph stopped before Sara and cleared his throat. "Sara," he began in a hesitant voice, "am I wrong in believing that you return Gil's love?"

Her hair swung freely about her shoulders as she shook her head in response. "No Father Ralph, you are not wrong. I have loved him for years. He always has been and always will be my only choice."

"And you have told him that?" the Abbot questioned with an arched eyebrow.

"I have," she stated firmly.

Father Ralph smiled in approval. "'Tis good, then. At least he knows and can be at peace."

Sara twisted her hands together before offering, "I am not sure that he yet fully believes it."

Father Ralph smiled sadly. "He wants to believe it and somewhere deep down he truly does. You are his match, his mate. He does know that; his actions and deeds have proven that."

"I seem to sense something else you are not quite saying."

"There are reasons why he cannot allow himself to hope too fully despite what your heart and his own are telling him."

"What reasons?" she asked, throwing her hands into the air. "Why does he deem all of this to be impossible?"

"Because, my dear child, he has never believed himself worthy of your love, never thought it would be possible to win your heart because he has nothing to offer you in return.

"Sara, you have to understand. He cannot express what he feels...he was too long in the cloister at too young an age. As I told you before, he was not allowed to speak and was forced into an austere life that was not of his choosing. He does not know how to talk to people about his feelings or, quite honestly, how to talk to people at all."

"Why does he see himself so?"

"He has never had much cause to think highly of himself."

"How can he think that? He is the most feared knight in the country. His accomplishments on the field of battle are legendary."

"And again we are back to the difference between the man and the knight. He derives no pleasure from his fame. He would much prefer to be known as a good and gentle man as opposed to a revered warrior. Unfortunately, that good and gentle man has been repeatedly betrayed and cast aside by those he loved and thought loved him."

"Who would dare?" she snarled, her eyes flashing with sudden anger at the thought that someone had deliberately hurt her knight.

Father Ralph shook his head and held up a single hand to silence her. "I will not answer that. Gil will tell you when he is ready."

Sara huffed, her lower lip jutting forward and her hands clenching in her lap.

"He has recently taken great risks; look at his outreach to young Sandre and his nephew Berenger. And then there is you. Despite some very real and formidable obstacles where you are concerned, he is trying. He is opening up and allowing you to see who he really is. He wants to believe, child, truly he does, for there is no one he has ever loved as he loves you."

Sara bowed her head, a solitary tear slipping down her cheek. "Father?" she sniffled lightly. "What is the forbidden?"

"That," the Abbot replied with a tone of finality, slapping the palms of his hands against his thighs as he rose from his chair, "is something you will have to ask your father about."

**_An Angel on the road shoulder_**

**_Knows the way home (6)_**

1 Shadow. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

2 Ghosts. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

3 Anonymous, "Blow, Northern Wind," (c 900-1400).

4 Broken. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

5 Lover. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

6 John Stewart, "Angel on the Road Shoulder," Chilly Winds, by John Stewart, Folk Era/Homeconing Records, 1983.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

**"Say the Words"**

_**All the words unspoken  
All the dogs in chains  
All the walls still standing  
They will own you, baby Jane**_

A herald of blaring trumpets startled Sara and Father Ralph from a light doze the next morning. After pausing to feel of Grissom's forehead and grimace at the hot, dry skin, Sara rushed to the window and was more than a little amazed at the procession approaching the front door of Grissomshire. Sandre was riding ahead of a grand coach emblazoned with her father's crest, leaving no doubt at all as to the occupants within.

Whirling wide-eyed from the window, Sara found herself face to face with Myria who all but dragged her into an unoccupied bedchamber next door to Grissom's room for a bath and change of clothing. Sara glanced around, quirking an eyebrow at the steaming bathtub, the hairbrush and ribbons she had been using laid out neatly on a low table near the tub, and trunk full of her own clothing standing open at the foot of the bed.

"I thought it best," Myria began, after clearing her throat, "that your father not know where you've actually been sleeping."

Sara blushed and nodded in agreement as the implications of the servant's statement became clear. Her father would not be happy to discover that his only daughter had been sharing both a room and a bed with his knight champion. She was not at all ashamed of what she had done or what had transpired between she and Grissom but was not so certain her father would be so understanding or forgiving.

"Anyway, lovey," Myria continued in a rush, "your father sent this trunk on ahead and it arrived about an hour ago with the messengers letting us know he was on his way. I'm assuming that pretty Lady Heather told him that you might be in need of a few things." She nudged the trunk with her toe, her voice low and sincere as she regarded Sara with a sad smile. "You needn't worry about any of us carrying tales, Princess. We'll keep your secrets safe for you."

Before leaving, the matronly chatelaine pressed something cold and metallic into Sara's hand. Myria chuckled softly at the look of astonishment on Sara's face and hastened to explain. "That arrived in a small pouch with a note from Sandre asking that it be given to you."

"How in the world did Sandre come to have this?" she gasped, dangling her own Maltese Cross pendant by the delicate golden chain. "I thought it lost forever."

"According to the note, that Nikolai fellow, Queen Sofia's son? Well, he found it and recognized it as Lord Grissom's symbol. He gave it Sandre to return to its rightful owner."

Sara smiled and laid it carefully on the table next to the tub next to a small bar of lavender-scented soap. She waited for Myria to leave before pulling her gown and kirtle over her head and climbing into the tub.

Sliding down into the depths of the tub, Sara released a low groan of satisfaction as the hot water began to soothe her weary muscles. She did not realize the physical toll caring for Grissom had exacted until she felt the persistent achy tightness in her lower back loosen and begin to fade away.

As she reached for the bar of soap on the small wooden table her fingers brushed the chain of her necklace. She stroked the delicate cross thoughtfully and fingered the heavier, more masculine weight of the one currently nestled between her breasts. Sara smiled as she picked up the soap and began to wash, confident that Grissom would understand and even approve of her decision.

_**Will they just stay inside your throat  
Until one day they're heard  
So take a chance and free yourself  
And you will free the words**_

By the time Sara finished with her quick bath and made her way down the stairs, James and Heather were already seated at the long oaken table in the Great Hall awaiting the noon meal.

"Sara," James breathed as he stood and engulfed his daughter in a fierce hug. For long moments he simply held her close, tucking her head beneath his chin and rocking her as he had when she was a small child curled within his arms seeking comfort. With a final sigh, James pulled back and placed his hands upon her shoulders to examine her with a critical eye. His face darkened as he eyed the fading green and yellow blemishes still visible on Sara's cheek and neck.

"I am haill and feir [1], Father." Sara brushed a kiss on his jaw and stroked a gentle hand down his arm. "They are just bruises and are welewen [2]." She leaned over to give Heather a quick hug and peck on the cheek before taking her seat at the long table and signaling for Berenger and Sandre to begin serving the meal.

Conversation was casual as the three did justice to Myria's cooking; the savory roasted chicken, vegetables and fresh bread more than satisfying their hunger as Heather regaled Sara with humorous tales of the latest palace gossip and intrigue. James glanced around as he ate, commenting on the austerity of the hall and the fact that nothing seemed to have changed since Grissom first took up residence some fifteen years ago.

Once they finished eating and the table had been cleared, the trio moved to a comfortable grouping of chairs before the great fireplace. Sara was on the verge of settling into one of the massive chairs when she noticed Sandre hovering nervously in the background and casting anxious glances up the stairs in the direction of Grissom's bedchamber. Motioning the lad to her side, Sara spoke to him in a soft, sympathetic voice.

"Go. I know you are anxious to see him for yourself."

Sandre nodded gratefully and turned to leave. Sara caught his hand and gently pulled him into a light embrace. "Thank you for returning my necklace," she whispered into his ear. "And thank you for coming to my rescue," she added with a warm kiss upon his smooth cheek.

The young squire bolted from the hall, his face flaming as he raced up the stairs and out of sight. James watched the exchange with an amused chuckle and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he considered his daughter's demeanor. Sara seemed exceedingly comfortable in Grissom's domain and had apparently taken it upon herself to become mistress of the manor. Her manner was almost wifely and the servants deferred to her more like she was Gil's spouse rather than visiting royalty. He speculated on that strange revelation for a moment before shaking his head to abandon such foolish notions and fixed his attention squarely upon his daughter.

"I do not wish to cause you any pain, Sara," James began cautiously, "but I need to know precisely what transpired from the time you were taken from the palace until now. Young Sandre has told me all he knows but I am still confused about some things."

"I am not sure how much more I can tell you, Father, for it is all very confusing to me as well." Sara drew a deep breath and began her tale. "I was in the stable, preparing for my daily ride … "

_Sara stood before a stall in the dusty stable caressing the velvety muzzle of her dapple mare. Chiara snuffled an apple from Sara's open palm and crunched happily as the Princess slipped through the waist-high wooden door and looped a bridle over the mount's head. After fitting the iron bit into the horse's mouth, Sara eased the leather headstall over Chiara's ears and buckled the straps snuggly into place. She grabbed the reins and led her mount out of the stall, through the stable and into the open courtyard. _

_Looping the reins over a post, Sara took a moment to admire the mare's stippled markings, the dark pewter mane, tail and stockings contrasting beautifully against the soft silvery coat. Wandered back into the stable, her steps making chuffing sounds and little puffs of dust on the straw-littered floor as she walked. Grabbed the blanket and saddle and returned to the courtyard. _

_Sara cast an apprehensive glance at the steel gray clouds roiling overhead and inhaled deeply, the crisp autumn air stinging her nostrils and filling her lungs with the clean scent of an impending rainstorm. Hoping to get her ride in before the storm broke, her actions were hurried but thorough as she saddled the mare. She could have easily have called the stable boy for assistance but she enjoyed tending to Chiara and was anxious to slip away from the stable before anyone noticed her. _

_She desperately wanted to ride alone and her overprotective father generally insisted that she take an escort. Sara needed some personal time, a scant one or two hours of peace when she could actually relax and escape the petty palace trivialities that dominated her everyday existence. With the brisk wind flowing through her hair and the cool air stinging her eyes, she allowed her mind to wander as free as her mount. As they had so often of late, her thoughts ran to Grissom and the blistering kiss they had shared by the stream._

_Sara groaned in frustration, rolling her eyes towards the heavens in supplication when Nik and Varrick rounded the far wall of the stable and called out to her. The two knights were in high spirits, laughing and joking as they approached, and gave overly exaggerated bows. Both were dressed in their official Royal Guard tunics as opposed to the plain garb they wore for everyday training and other light duties around the keep. Both knights cut dashing figures, the deep scarlet tunics complimented Nik's ruddy complexion and Varrick's sea green eyes to perfection. It was no wonder that two were considered the scalawags of the keep, far more interested in bedding every available wench than in tending to their duties._

_After several minutes of small talk, Nik cleared his throat and explained why he and Varrick had come looking for her. He told her that the two of them had been placed in charge of running a new training exercise designed to test the readiness of those squires who had been deemed ready for dubben in the spring. They were supposed to "kidnap" her and take her away from the palace. She was to be hidden at an inn two days ride away and it would fall upon the squires to find and rescue her. At no time would she be in danger nor would she be harmed or mistreated. Nik and Varrick would be with her the entire time to ensure her safety._

"And you believed this?"

Sara was pulled from her memories by her father's incredulous tone.

"I had no reason not to," she replied calmly. "The whole of it seemed reasonable and something you might come up with to test the readiness and worthiness of the squires."

James eyes narrowed in thought as he measured the weight of her words before nodding once and accepting her explanation. "You are right. Please continue"

_What happened after that? They bound my hands and feet, put a gag in my mouth, rolled me up in a wool blanket and put me in the back of a wagon. The binds were not tight; I could have loosened them had I chosen to do so. They did not mistreat me and were even gentle in their handling of me. I honestly had no reason to believe that I was not partaking in a training exercise.  
_

_They took me to an inn that was deserted save for the family who ran it. I was shown to a room but was free to move about. I took my meals in the common room with Nikolai and Varrick. I was not restrained and they did not mistreat me. They were kind and considerate._

Sara rose abruptly and began pacing a tight path before the massive fireplace. "Then Tarek arrived and everything changed."

"Changed how?"

"We were in the common room eating our evening meal when he blew in like an ill omen. 'Twas then when I first began to suspect things might not be as they seemed for I could not imagine you ever seeking Tarek's assistance in anything. He grabbed me tightly about the upper arm," she continued, absently rubbing her hand against her arm where his fingers had dug into her flesh like freshly honed talons, "and dragged me up the stairs to a room at the end of the hall. He told Nik and Varrick to go find some wenches and enjoy themselves, that they had fulfilled their duties. The squires had been alerted and would most likely arrive on the following morning."

Sara shook her head ruefully at the memory. Nik and Varrick had seemed surprised at being dismissed but the unexpected prospect of an evening of wenching overrode any suspicions they might have had about Tarek's true intentions.

"Go on," James urged. "What happened next?"

Sara started shaking as the memories of that terrifying night returned full force. Heather rose from her chair and wrapped an arm about Sara's shoulders, holding the younger woman close until she could feel the trembling subside. Heather led her back to the chairs before the fire and they sat, hands entwined, as Sara struggled to finish her story.

"As soon as we were in the room and the door closed and bolted, Tarek struck me. He twisted my arm behind my back and threw me down upon the bed." Her breathing quickened and she clutched Heather's hands fiercely.

"Easy, daughter. Take your time." The King's voice was gentle but beneath the surface he was seething.

"He bound me hand and foot to the corners of the bed with wet leather laces. He...he..." She looked at Heather for support. Heather nodded and gripped the Sara's hands as tightly as possible, willing some of her strength to the younger woman.

"He … tried to … foulen [3] me," she choked out, fighting the impulse to retch as she revisited the horrors of that night. "He … tried to heterly [4] take me against my will."

Sara chanced a look at her father, worried about the toll this was exacting upon him. James' face was beet red, his hands balled into fists and he was trembling – whether from fright or repressed fury, she was not sure but thought it might very well be a combination of the two. Deciding to prolong his agony no further, she rushed to finish her tale.

"Had Grissom not arrived when he did, Tarek would have succeeded. Grissom broke down the door, pulled that fel [5] beast off of me and hurled him against the wall as if he was a rag doll. He cut through the straps holding me to the bed, covered me with a blanket and gave me a dagger, telling me to gut anyone who came near me save for he or Sandre."

"And did you?"

"Did I … "

"Did you gut anyone?

"No," Sara replied ruefully with a brief shake of her head, "but it was more from a lack of opportunity than any unwillingness on my part. I did stab Varrick in the shoulder when he came racing into the room upon Sandre's heels. Sandre clubbed him over the head with a large piece of wood from the splintered door and then relieved that stalwart warrior of his sword."

"Yes, I noticed he had Varrick's blade" James commented dryly. An amused grin flitted about the corners of his mouth. "He was strutting about the bailey like a preening cock, waving the sword about and boasting of his heroic deeds. He quickly became the envy of the other squires."

Sara flashed a quick smile at the image. "He deserved his moment, Father. He certainly earned it and then some." She grew serious again as she drew a deep breath. "Sandre knotted some blankets together and he and I escaped the room by climbing through the window and down the makeshift rope. We went to the stable and waited for Grissom to arrive."

"I do not remember much else after that," she finished with a shrug, relieved to have reached the end. "I know we took haven at St. Benet's for a short time and then we came here."

James stood and paced, his mind sorting through all that Sandre and now Sara had related. "Why did Gil bring you here instead of returning you to me?" he asked abruptly, stopping in front of her chair with his hands locked behind his back.

"Nik told him before we left the inn that the original plan had come from within the palace. Until all of the conspirators were named and under guard, he had no way of knowing who could be trusted or if others were lying in wait to take us captive on our way back to the keep. He knew I would be safe here until you had a chance to ferret out all of those plotting against you."

Sara saw a flicker of doubt on her father's face and rose to face him.

"Father, had it not been for Grissom, Tarek would have raped and killed me. Gil refuses to speak of it, but he was forced to kill his brother. He did not want to do it but Tarek left him no choice."

"Very well, Sara," he finally replied with a weary sigh. "I am sorry for pressing you to recall such painful events. I know Gil acted with your safety and best interests at heart."

_**Just say the words  
Say the words  
Oh say the words  
Won't you say the words**_

James stood within Grissom's chambers, staring somberly at the still figure stretched out on the bed. A lighted candle flickering on the bedside table played upon Gil's face, accentuating the drawn features and the deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth. Pain and exhaustion were taking a hellish toll on the injured knight.

Father Ralph rested in a straight-backed chair before the hearth while Brother Timothy and Levi tended to Grissom. Berenger and Sandre sat cross-legged on a pallet at the Abbot's feet reading from a worn Psalter. The King smiled gently as he observed the familiar scene, the boys taking turns reciting a passage aloud, stumbling over the Latin and Father Ralph correcting them when they faltered. James' face softened as he remembered, seeing again he and Gil as strapping youths seated before old Father Matthias reciting their lessons in a similar manner, Gil whispering in his ear as he struggled through the tedious readings.

James' face sobered as he walked slowly to the bed to gaze down upon his old friend. Never had he seen Grissom so still and only the shallow rise and fall of the knight's chest offered any sort of reassurance that he still lived. The King glanced over his shoulder to regard Father Ralph with a worried look. "Will he survive?"

"Only God knows for sure, Sire," the Abbot replied with a serene shrug, motioning for the boys to continue with their lesson. "Gil is a strong man and is yet fighting. I am hopeful but only time will tell."

James heaved a heavy sigh and reached down to take Gil's lifeless hand between his own. He patted the back of Grissom's hand awkwardly as he spoke, his voice low and full of heart-felt concern. "Keep fighting my friend. 'Tis not yet your time to leave this earth."

Grissom's eyes fluttered open at the sound of James' voice, a breath of incredible sorrow and loneliness crossing his face. "Friend? I am your friend?"

"Of course you are my friend," James said with a melancholy smile. "We have been friends since we were but young warriors in training, lads still wet behind the ears and innocent of the pleasures of women."

"No," replied Grissom, his voice mournful, his eyes shadowed with an intense inner pain. "You are in need of the knight and despise the man. 'Tis been some fifteen years since you named me friend."

Grissom's eyes closed and James turned to go, making his way towards the door with a heavy heart when the knight suddenly spoke again.

"You always have been and always will be my friend. My faith in you never faltered."

_**Well you wrote to me in letters  
That flowed right from your heart  
And you wrote the words "I Love You"  
And they tore my blues apart**_

"Sara?" Sara turned towards the door as Heather tapped on the door and slowly entered the bedchamber Myria had hastily prepared that morning. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, Heather, but thank you," she said beckoning the other woman fully into the room. "I think I am coming to terms with what has happened. I am just so angry right now, so frightened for Grissom. I don't understand …" Her voice trailed off and she covered her eyes with her hand, pinching the bridge of her nose in an effort to remain calm. Recounting the events of the near rape to her father had drained her already depleted emotional reserves.

"Were I to guess," Heather ventured in a thoughtful tone as she joined Sara before the cheery fire, "I would say that Tarek's hatred for Gil and Sofia's animosity towards your father lie at the root of this."

"But why? Why me? Sofia and I have always been on good terms."

"I know, dear," Heather soothed. "You are an innocent in all of this. Sofia simply used you as a means to exact revenge upon your father."

Sara rose and crossed the room to stare out the lone window. She ran her fingers along the sill, gazing at the barren trees and snow-covered landscape. "Why does she hate him?" she asked suddenly, turning back to face Heather. "He does not mistreat her. Granted, he tends to ignore her, but he is not unkind towards her."

"That is a very long story, Sara, and one I have no right to tell. Simply put, Sofia was intended for another but forced to wed your father instead. Once your father consummated the marriage, he had no further intimacies with her. Since that time their relationship has remained cordial, but strictly platonic."

Sara churned this information over in her mind as she walked back across the room and reclaimed her chair before the fire. Something had happened around the time of her mother's death that somehow involved her father, her knight and her stepmother. She was well aware that Grissom had not told her everything with regard to his time with the Knights Hospitallers and the her father had been extremely nervous, even frightened perhaps, at what Grissom could have revealed.

She accepted a cup of tea from Heather and spent long moments watching the flames crackling in the stone fireplace. "I have never done anything to Tarek either," she finally said in a low tone.

"You committed the unpardonable sin." Sara looked questioningly at Heather. "You chose his brother over him."

Sara nodded, accepting the truth behind the older woman's simple statement. "I asked him why he hated Grissom so much."

Heather's eyes widened as she placed her teacup on the floor beside her chair. "Did he respond?"

"He hated Gris from the moment he was born because he no longer had his parents undivided attention and affection."

"And have you told Gil?"

"No, not yet. Well, not in so many words." Sara plucked an imaginary thread from her gown, avoiding Heather's pointed gaze. "There really was no chance before he fell ill."

"You need to tell him," the older woman declared firmly. "He has a right to know. It will not erase the past, but, if nothing else, it will ease his mind."

"You know," Sara replied with an arched eyebrow, "that is the second time I have heard that in the last two days."

_**Oh but when I call you on the phone  
The conversation's blurred  
So take a chance and free yourself  
And you will free the words**_

The king returned to the lavish apartment Grissom maintained for his visits and eased the door close behind him. He leaned against the sturdy oaken portal and watched Heather brush out her shimmering dark hair in the muted glow of the fire.

"How is he?"

James shrugged as he crossed the room. "Who knows?"

"Will he survive?" Heather persisted as she made her towards the massive bed and slipped beneath the blankets.

The king sat heavily on the edge of the mattress and began disrobing. "I am not sure he wants to." He pulled his tunic over his head and removed his cross garters and hosen as he spoke. "He had a moment of wakefulness while I was there. He knew who I was and responded when I called him friend."

James finished preparing for bed and joined Heather beneath the blankets. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling before turning his head towards her, his eyes bleeding misery and despair. His voice was as plaintive as that of a young child when he finally spoke. "Heather, why does Gil think I hate him?"

Heather blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected question. Any discussion revolving around the death of James' first wife and tragic aftermath was generally forbidden. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to swallow her surprise and formulate a response. "Why should he think otherwise?" she asked gently. "You told me what happened after your beloved Rivka died."

"That was fifteen years ago," he protested, his voice growing louder as he sought to defend his past actions. "Surely he cannot … "

"Shhh," she said, laying a finger against his lips to silence him. "Just listen."

Heather took a moment to sit up and shove her pillows behind her back so she could lean against the headboard to watch James' reactions as she spoke. This would not be an easy conversation, but it was one that was necessary.

"Despite the fact that Gil was far away on a mission for your father, you blamed him for your wife's death," she began calmly, determined to keep her tone as light and as conversational as possible. "You screamed and yelled at him, told him that had he truly been your friend, Rivka would not be dead."

"And then what did you do?" Her voice held no hint of accusation but a slim current of steel beneath the words let him know that she expected an answer.

James hung his head in shame. "I … beat him. I struck him over and over and over. He just stood there, taking the blows and letting me vent my rage until I had him pinned to the floor. I think, had some members of the Household Guard not pulled me away and restrained me, I probably would have killed him, so deep my was my rage and my grief."

"Yes," she continued mildly as if reciting a fable instead of forcing her lover to revisit the past. "You were like a beast unchained. You bloodied him and took out your own guilt upon him. You even scarred his face with your ring, right over his left eye, so that he would be forced to remember his sin and your hatred of him every time he gazed upon his own image."

"But … "

A single raised finger caused the words to die in his throat as Heather continued to speak. "And then you cast him aside. At your insistence, your father exiled him and sent him to Frederick to fight in the Third Crusade. When Frederick's men decided that they had seen enough of the terrible fighting and returned home, you ordered Gil to stay. You lent his skills to leader after leader until there were no more battles to be won. Only then did you allow him to return. You sent him here, to this place that has never really been a home and forbid him leave unless called forth by you. You made him a prisoner in his own dwelling."

"James," she prodded. "There is one part left to this story and it is important because it has lead us to where are today. Sofia. She was to have been his wife and you took that from him as well."

"Bah," he grumbled with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Gil never loved her."

"And you do?" Unable to maintain the forced pretense of calm any longer, Heather laid her hand beneath his jaw and slowly turned his head until he was facing her. "You can hardly stand to be in the same room as she. The only reason you took her to bride was to hurt Gil and to punish him further."

James tried to look away, unable to meet either her eyes or the truth of her statements but her gentle touch held him fast.

"Gil could have grown to love her in his own way. He liked her and was even comfortable with her. That does not happen easily for him. He would have been content to live out his days with her and would have been proud to raise Nikolai as his own son. You denied him that chance."

The king sighed heavily. "Heather, I long ago accepted that I am to blame for Rivka's death. Had I gone riding with her that day as she begged me, that terrible accident would never have happened. Rayner was too much cowed by her spirit and royal status to be an appropriate escort. 'Twas my fault for not going and her fault for being too headstrong and reckless."

"Have you ever told Gil that?"

_**All the words unspoken  
All the dogs in chains  
All the walls still standing  
All alone will be retained**_

_**Will they just say inside your throat  
Until one day they're heard  
So take a chance and free yourself  
And you will free the words**_

"Gil is an intelligent man. I am sure he has figured it out."

"Oh, James," she moaned in frustration. "Sometimes I don't think you know him at all. Yes, he probably knows somewhere deep inside that Rivka's death was nothing more than a tragic accident and that he bears no fault. But _**YOU**_ blamed him and _**YOU**_ punished him. He loves you as a brother and, like his own brother, you turned on him for reasons he could not comprehend."

"I don't … " he managed to sputter before she once again silenced him with a raised finger.

"Tarek despised him simply because he was born. You hated him because Rivka died. James, he had no control over either of those two events and yet he has been continually made to pay for them. Since the day Rivka died, he has lived only to serve you and to somehow atone for a crime he cannot understand but has accepted as his own. You have taken three families from him and left him with nothing."

"He has land. He is titled and he is wealthy," James replied in a sullen tone.

"And what good does all of that do him? He tends to his holdings all the while waiting for you to send for him. He merely marks his time between summons."

James levered himself up on his elbows to look her more directly in the eye as he pleaded his case. "He can take a wife, sire children. I have never forbid him these things."

"Don't you see?" Heather leaned forward and grasped James by the shoulders. "Until you absolve him, he is forever chained to the past. He lives his entire life in hopes that his deeds will someday be enough for him to redeem himself. Until you can forgive him for a crime that was not his but for which you have made him suffer all these years, until you can take the steps to finally release that burden from his heart, he cannot move forward."

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration, churning her words over in his mind and reflecting on the years that had passed since Grissom's return from exile. Gone were the days where they freely bantered and spoke bluntly of their deeds, adventures and aspirations. Time and circumstance had stolen away that easy camaraderie and replaced it with hesitancy and caution.

Gil had always been quiet, even as a youth, but the time he had been forced to serve abroad had changed him. The knight had grown increasingly withdrawn and cautious, guarding his words and feelings much more closely than before as if fearful of crossing some invisible and forbidden border. James grimaced as the pieces finally fell into place. He understood what his lover was telling him but sadly did not think a simple "I'm sorry" would heal fifteen years of guilt.

"And if I did that, Heather," he began with a weary sigh, knowing she was right about the causes but doubting her solution, "what would Gil do? Formally bestowing my forgiveness upon him will not magically undo any damage I have done."

Heather smiled a secret smile. "Yes it would, my love. You see, Gil is in love and has been for years. And the object of his affection returns his love."

"Then he has my leave to court and marry this woman."

"Really? she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "And you will stand by and honor that pledge?"

"Of course I will," he snapped, annoyed that Heather would question his word. "Who is this mystery woman?"

"Sara."

"Sara," James repeated dumbly, staring blankly at Heather until awareness struck him full force. "My Sara?"

Heather nodded smugly.

"Why has he never said anything?"

Heather shot him a filthy look, regarding him much as she might the local village idiot. "Because you hate him, remember?"

"_**I DO NOT HATE HIM!" **_ the King thundered. **"**_**HE IS MY BROTHER!"**_

"Then perhaps you should swallow your damned foolish pride and find a way to tell him that."

_**Say the words  
Say the words  
Won't you say the words  
Just say the words [6]**_

**Special Note: A huge, huge thanks to TDCSI for help with the horse lingo and descriptions. And as always, a huge shout out to Cincoflex for her outstanding beta work.**

1 Safe and sound. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

2 To fade or become yellow. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

3 To make foul, defile, revile, destroy. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

4 Fiercely, violently. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

5 Cruel, base, treacherous, wicked. Rev. A. L., M.A. and Skeat, Rev. Walter W., LITT.D. Mayhew, LL.D. and M.A., A Concise Dictionary of Middle English (Public Domain, 1888).

6 John Stewart, "All the Words Unspoken," Johnny Moonlight, by John Stewart, Neon Dreams, 2000.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

** "Remember Me"**

_**If you should remember me**_

_**When all I am is a memory**_

_**Would you keep a tiny spark**_

_**Burning somewhere in your heart**_

Sara returned to Grissom's chamber after talking with Heather, her desperation growing as Gil seemed to weaken with each thundering clang of the massive clock in the Great Hall. The stricken knight no longer reacted when a steaming poultice touched his savaged flesh and the cool sponge baths had little effect on his raging fever. The wild thrashing of his limbs had dwindled to occasional agitated twitches and the only tangible signs of life, other than the labored rising and falling of his chest, were sporadic vocal outbursts.

_I had to do it, Father. He left me no choice. He hurt my Sara. Please forgive me._

I_'m sorry, Mother. He leapt at me. Please don't hate me anymore. I didn't want to fight him. I never wanted to fight him. You must believe me. I did not want to kill him. I loved him._

_Why did he have to hurt Sara?_

Grissom's words trailed off to an indistinct mumble as a lone tear slipped down his cheek.

Sara lovingly kissed away his tear and turned her own watery eyes to Father Ralph. "He is a-fure (1). Is there nothing more we can do?"

The Abbot worried the nail of his index finger with his teeth before his suddenly shot up and he clapped his hands loudly three times to summon Timothy, Levi, Berenger and Sandre. He asked Sara to spread a blanket upon the floor before the hearth and then instructed the four young men to move Grissom to the makeshift pallet. Much grunting and groaning accompanied the move as Grissom fought the hands restraining him.

"Take care with his leg," Father Ralph hissed as Brother Timothy fought to retain his grip. "We don't want him doing any further damage."

Once Grissom was settled on the blanket, Father Ralph sent the quartet of stout young men to find buckets and fill them with snow. Myria and Conrad saw the four youngsters leaving the hall and burst into the chamber demanding to know how they could help. Conrad was sent to fetch a bucket of cold water from the well while Myria helped Sara and Father Ralph strip Grissom down to his linen braies.

The younger men returned to the chamber with two wooden buckets apiece firmly packed with snow, their cheeks ruddy and noses running from the frigid air outdoors. Sara took up a position on the floor and cradled Grissom's head in her lap while Berenger, Sandre, Levi and Timothy each grasped one of the knight's limbs. Father Ralph knelt by Grissom's left side, Conrad to the right, and they divided the buckets of snow equally among them. Father Ralph nodded and he and Conrad began packing the snow on Grissom's torso and limbs.

The knight tried to escape from the freezing snow but the young men held him fast. Sara smoothed an ice-cold cloth across his brow, trying to console and calm him at the same time. He responded to her voice, looking at her with a startling awareness, a clarity in the depths of his clear blue eyes that had been missing throughout most of the previous two days.

"Sara. Stop," he whispered, his teeth chattering as he continued to try to escape the snowy ministrations of Father Ralph and Conrad. "Make it stop. Cold. Please. No more."

His pleas went unheeded as the older men continued their treatment, ceasing only when Grissom's lips had turned blue and his entire body was shivering uncontrollably. The snowy applications had helped; Sara thought his skin felt cooler to the touch, but none had the heart to ignore any longer the forlorn tone when he begged them to stop. They could not bring themselves to cause him anymore suffering.

The young men finally rolled Grissom to a dry pallet and replaced his sodden braies with a pair of dry braccos. They added a sleeveless undershirt and Sandre carefully covered his knight with a warm wool blanket. Father Ralph dismissed the lads, telling the quartet to go find something to eat and to get some rest.

"We are losing him, Sara," Father Ralph said once the youths had gone, his words weary with defeat as he knelt beside the princess. Sara had not moved from her position on the floor. Over and over she stroked her hands through his hair or softly caressed his face and neck to let him know she was still there, still holding him, caring for him, loving him.

"His periods of awareness are fewer and farther between."

"NO!" she cried, not wanting to believe the monk. "He cannot die!"

"Damn you, Gris," she hissed, pounding furiously on his chest in an attempt to rouse him. "Don't you dare do this to me. I am not giving up so you can't either."

Father Ralph embraced Sara from behind and pinned her arms against her sides with gentle restraint. "Beating upon him will have no effect, child. He is used to harshness and pain. His body will barely register such blows."

The anger and frustration drained from her body as Father Ralph's words penetrated her mind. She nodded and her head slumped wearily. A sob escaped her throat, shamed at what she had done. All she wanted was to love him, not cause him further pain. Her slight frame began to tremble and then shake as she gave in to the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness settling about chamber and finally allowed her misery to escape.

Father Ralph shifted to her side and held her as best he could while she muffled her cries against his rough robe. "Sara, this pains me as much as it does you," he murmured as he cradled her within his arms and gently rocked her back and forth. "A father should never have to watch his only child die."

**_And looking back on all the years_**

**_Days of laughter, nights of tears_**

**_And if perhaps a bird appears_**

**_It will be me who found you here_**

_Don't hate me. I didn't know. I didn't mean to let Rivka die. Please don't send me away._

Sara gaped at the Abbott, scarcely believing what she had just heard. "What the devil is he talking about? He was away tending to some business for my Grandfather when my mother was killed. He had not been at the keep for nearly two weeks and was not expected back for at least two more."

"I know, dear," Father Ralph intoned sadly. "He has told me the story."

_Th__ey should have let him kill me. It would have been better that way. I would not be forced see the hatred in his eyes every time he looks at me._

"Then what … " Sara bristled as her anger rose to the surface. "Who dared blame him for her death? And who tried to kill him?"

_I bear the mark._

Grissom raised a shaking hand and swiped at his left brow. Over and over he scratched at the spot, pressing harder with each pass of his fingers as if trying to scrub the stain from his skin.

Sara pulled his hand away and enfolded it within her own. Smoothing the rumpled hair from his forehead, she leaned forward to examine the freshly abraded area and frowned at the discovery of a small round blemish just above his eyebrow. She bent lower still to brush her lips against the scar, caressing the damaged skin with slow, warm pecks and a gentle touch of her tongue.

"I will not answer you, Sara, for this is not my story to tell. You will have to ask Gil or your father. They are the only ones who know the truth."

A growl rumbled from Sara's throat as she rested her forehead against Grissom's chest. Somehow she knew all of this harkened back to those dark days following the death of her mother. Gris was nowhere near the keep when her mother was thrown from her horse and broke her neck but for some mysterious reason he vanished immediately after the accident and six long years passed before he returned.

She sat up and rolled her head from side to side before easing the knight's head to a pillow and rising from the cold stone floor. Sara stretched her cramped limbs, arms reaching towards the high ceiling of the bedchamber as she thought about what Father Ralph had said or, more accurately, what he had not. If the Abbot was correct about her father and Grissom being the only ones who knew the truth, did that mean her father was responsible? Was he the one who blamed Gris for her mother's death and who had tried to kill him? Was he responsible for the scar?

Sooner or later she was going to have to confront her father. She needed to know what happened all those years ago and how those events were tied to what happened to her.

**_The rain crow calls to the setting sun_**

**_The curtain falls on everyone_**

**_All my love was holy art_**

**_That I might live within your heart_**

"Sara?" Grissom's voice was desperate as he lifted his head from the pillow and searched the room for her. The young men had returned him to his bed and he struggled against the blankets, trying to free himself from the woolen prison in his frantic efforts to find her. Sara rushed to his side.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his sorrow-filled eyes begging forgiveness as he grasped her hands in a heated grip. "I tried to stop him. I got there as fast as I could. I'm sorry."

Grissom tugged at her hands, pulling her closer to lay beside him. Sara cast a wary glance towards Father Ralph who smiled gently and nodded his approval before slipping silently from the room. She snuggled beneath the blankets and curled into Gil's side. Gris nuzzled her hair as her hand snuck beneath his shirt to caress the tight skin over his heart.

"I'm sorry he hurt you. I'm sorry I failed you," he muttered, his voice as dry and taut as his skin.

"Gris," she breathed, her voice breaking on a whispered sob, "You did not fail me. You saved me."

"No!" He shook his head stubbornly, waving away her words with a feeble flutter of his hand. "It should have been me. I am the one he hated. Not you. Never you."

Sara laid a finger across his dry, cracked lips. "Shhhhh, Druerie. You are not to blame for what happened. Tarek alone is responsible for what he did to me. He was the Deuel (2), an altern dier (3)."

Raising up slightly, Sara fumbled with a small pouch attached to the girdle of her gown and extracted a slender object that glittered in the flickering firelight. She sat up a bit further and draped the chain of her own Maltese Cross about Grissom's neck.

"But, this is yours, the one I gave you," he protested, his eyes reflecting the confusion in his voice.

Tucking the golden pendant safely beneath his under shirt, Sara laid it atop his heart, covering the delicate cross with her hand as she spoke. "I am keeping yours and giving you mine as freely as I have given you my heart, my body and all that I am. Hold it close for it is proof of my devotion, a part of me to keep with you and remind you that I am your mate, your love."

"Sara, Leof-mon," he sighed, a contented puff of breath whispering across her face, "I do love you. Never doubt that."

Sara sniffled and clutched him tightly, holding him with an almost frantic desperation as he drifted away again. For a long time she just rested against his fevered form, listening to his labored breathing and praying silently for some sort of miracle to save her beloved knight.

**_And if you should remember me_**

**_When all I am is a memory_**

**_Would you smile once and say_**

**_I don't believe you've gone away_**

When Sara was finally able to pull herself from Grissom's side, she crossed the chamber and eased the door open, intent on finding Father Ralph. She was surprised to find the Abbot dozing lightly in a chair right outside of the room. Sara ran her fingers through her tangled hair.

"You did not have to leave."

"You needed the time alone."

Sara closed her eyes and nodded once, acknowledging the gravity of his words.

_Go away. Gosten (4)._

"Who is he talking about now?" Sara asked as they pulled chairs by the bed and sat down. Sara clutched one of Grissom's hands in both of hers and waited patiently for the Abbot to answer.

"All of those he has killed in battle."

"Were there many?"

Father Ralph sighed heavily and fiddled with the prayer beads attached to the simple rope belt of his robe. "When Gil was first thrust into battle some fifteen years ago, he would recite a Psalm as a prayer for every man he killed." He raised his head to gaze at Sara, his eyes brimming with sorrow as his voice dropped to a whisper. "He stopped counting when he ran out of passages to quote."

Sara closed her eyes and bowed her head. She knew Father Ralph grieved not only for those whom the Black Monk had slain, but also for those portions of Gil's soul that had perished each and every time he had been forced to take another life.

"Are there not well over one hundred Psalms?" she asked quietly.

"There are one hundred fifty," came the equally hushed response. "He is seeking final absolution. He is nearing the end of his dede-stoure5."

Sara looked up at him, her anguish clearly written upon her face. "I will not let him go."

_Lully, lully, lully, lully,_

_The faucon (6) hath borne my make (7) away_

_He bare (8) him up, he bare him down,_

_He bare him into an orchard brown._

"That is not your choice, child. He is tired and sees no reason to stay."

_In that orchard ther was a hall_

_That was hanged with purple and pall (9)._

_And in that hall there was a bed:_

_It was hanged with gold so red._

"No. I refuse to believe that. There must something I can do to convince him. What can I do to give him hope, to let him know how much he is loved and needed?"

_And in that bed ther lith a knight,_

_His woundes bleeding by day and night._

_By that beddes side ther kneeleth a may (10),_

_And she weepeth both night and day._

_And by that beddes side ther standeth a stoon:_

_Corpus Grissom written thereon (11)._

Father Ralph bowed his head, deep in thought. He could think of only one thing that might compel Grissom to keep fighting. What he would propose was drastic and yes, a last resort, but when a man sang of his own death and tomb, last resorts were all that remained. Sara was the only one capable of reaching him, the only person to whom Gil still responded. If the Princess was willing ….

"How serious are you Sara?" he finally asked, raising his head to regard her carefully.

"Father Ralph, I will do anything and everything in my power to keep him here with me."

"Anything? Does that include acting against the wishes of your father and openly defying him if need be?"

_Lemman, don't leave me. Don't send me away._

"Do you really need to ask?" she asked, her tone dry as she waved a hand towards her ailing knight. "I freely accept responsibility for whatever you might have in mind. Gris is worth any risk I must take, any danger into which I must place myself."

Sara paused for a moment and cocked her head to the side. She regarded Father Ralph thoughtfully as she threw his inquiries back at him. "I might ask the same of you. Your position as Abbott will not protect you from my father's wrath."

Father Ralph smiled serenely. "I am willing to risk the vengeance of my earthly king and even the ire of my spiritual king if need be."

The Abbot drew himself up to his full height, his pale blue eyes seeking the depth of Sara's emotion and sincerity. "Do you love him, child? Do you truly love this broken man?"

"More than you will ever know."

"So be it."

**_And would you keep a tiny spark_**

**_Burning somewhere in your heart. (12)_**

1 On fire.

2 Devil.

3 Cruel or vicious wild beast.

4 Ghosts.

5 Death struggle.

6 Falcon.

7 Love, Mate.

8 Carried.

9 Funeral pall or cloth spread over a coffin.

10 Maiden.

11 Anonymous, "The Corpus Christi Carol,"

12 John Stewart, "If You Should Remember Me," Johnny Moonlight, by John Stewart, Neon Dreams, 2000.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **

**I have been most remiss of late, but I owe a huge thank you to my tireless beta, Cincoflex, who puts up with not only a multitude of errors, but who is also always available to talk me through countless plot ideas and helps me out of the corners I manage to write myself into.**

**Chapter Seventeen **

**"Let it Carry You Home"**

**_There's always one more river the sea can carry _**

**_There's always one more soul that heaven can hold _**

**_There's always one more star the sky can hang on to _**

**_So hand your heart to the wind, let it carry you home_**

Sara huffed an agitated breath as she slipped from Grissom's chamber and made her way to the kitchen. Father Ralph's plan had been set into motion and she was growing a bit frustrated by the snail's pace at which the preparations seemed to be dawdling. Myria burst into unexpected tears when she was told and ran from the bedchamber, telling Sara between gulping sobs to meet her in the kitchen as soon as the Princess was able to sneak downstairs. Conrad raised a solitary eyebrow but otherwise had remained mute. Sandre, Berenger, Timothy and Levi merely nodded and set about performing the tasks assigned to them by the Abbot.

Pausing at the foot of the stairs to make sure that her furtive passage down the long hallway and cold stone steps had not disturbed her father or Heather, Sara listened for just a moment, satisfied that they were still slumbering peacefully and unaware of the furtive activity taking place within the manor. She made her way through the darkened Great Hall towards the kitchen, pulling her robe more securely about her shoulders to help ward off the persistent chill. Sara offered up a silent prayer that the iron hinges would not screech and shoved lightly on the large wooden portal separating the kitchen from the hall, easing the door open just enough to wiggle her slight form through the narrow slit.

Myria stood in front of the massive fireplace, a covered basket in her hands and the chatelaine's eyes danced with delight as she gently thrust her burden into Sara's arms. "This is supposed to be for my daughter," she began, offering a hurried explanation. "Well, it _**will**_ be for my dear Annie, that is," the older woman continued with a hint of exasperation in her voice, "if she ever manages to find a beau Conrad will actually allow to pay her court." A rueful shake of her head accompanied by a heavy sigh punctuated her aggravation with her husband's over-protective tendencies where their daughter was concerned.

Pursing her lips to suppress a grin, Sara kneeled down to place her burden on the hearth and carefully lifted the bleached linen cloth to see what treasures were hidden in the sturdy willow basket. Her eyes widened and a startled gasp escaped her lips as she unfolded and held up a stunning bridal gown of light blue silk.

"'Tis lovely, isn't it?" Myria commented, running a work-worn hand down the luxurious ice-blue dress. "Lord Grissom sent the bolt of silk back to me a year or two ago from wherever it was he was fighting back then." Her fingers toyed with the intricate dark blue and silver embroidery decorating the edge of the modest neckline. "He knew that Annie was getting to be of marrying age and wanted us to be ready. And," she added with a small sniffle, "he wanted her to have the best."

"It is beautiful, Myria," Sara whispered hoarsely, swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat. She blinked several times, her eyes growing moist, overwhelmed by the generosity and selflessness Myria and her family had shown. She was accustomed to receiving presents token offerings from visiting kings and the like, but, with the exception of the necklace she had received from Grissom, she had never been the recipient of such a personal and meaningful gift.

"I'm afraid that I simply cannot accept," she finally sighed with regret, delicately refolding the garment and placing it back in the basket with a wistful expression. "As much as I would love to wear this, I cannot take your daughter's wedding gown from her."

"Princess," the older woman began softly, "'twas Annie's idea. When I went back to my cottage just now and told her what you and Father Ralph were planning to do, she ran straight away to her hope chest and pulled this out for you. She wants you to have it."

Sara eyed the other woman for a long moment before swiping at a tear trickling down her cheek and nodding her acceptance. Propelled forward by sheer gratitude and an overwhelming sense of affection and matronly love she had not felt since her own mother had died so many years ago, she reached for the older woman and engulfed her in a strong embrace.

"Come, Lovey," Myria said with a final squeeze, sniffing back a few tears of her own as she scooped the basket from the hearth. "We have much to do and little time to do it."

The chatelaine grabbed Sara's wrist and all but towed the Princess back through the Great Hall and up the stairs to a dusty chamber at the far end of the hall. The room appeared to be Grissom's study or work area; perhaps even some sort of storage room. Hardwood tables were covered with layers of parchment and numerous bundled thatches of dried herbs and flowers hung from the low-slung ceiling beams. Crocks, bowls and small pans were stacked haphazardly on the hearth and an old discarded set of chain maille had been tossed into a dark, musty corner.

While Myria bustled about lighting a few candles, Sara's attention was drawn to an ornately carved wooden box, its elegance and dust-free perch high atop the mantle placing it at odds with the general disarray of the rest of the room. She watched with great curiosity as Myria set down the basket containing the gown and almost reverently cradled the box within her plump arms.

"Lord Grissom brought this box and its contents back from his last adventure," she explained. "He just brought it in and set it upon the mantle in the Hall downstairs with not a word about what it was or who it was for. Day after day it sat there, mocking me, tempting me. Oh, I would not open it, not without milord's permission, but," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "when he was not about I would take it down and shake it a bit to try to figure out what was inside."

She sighed, a dramatic, sorely put-upon sort of sigh that had Sara grinning in response. "And you know what was worse than not being able to figure it out?" Myria asked, casting a dark look towards her companion. "It was that little smirk he wore every time he caught me looking and wondering. He knew it was driving me crazy and he still wouldn't talk about it."

Sara laughed aloud at the indignation in Myria's voice. She knew Grissom well enough to know that he purposefully refrained from providing any clues about the contents of the box and left it in plain sight just to taunt the poor woman.

"Well, I lasted about a month before I finally broke down and started pestering him about it. At first he told me that it was just something to remind him of the past and of a future that would never come to pass. That was not a real answer, not even for that tight-lipped knave, so I just kept at him about it. He did not want to tell me but I finally wore him down," she finished with a smug grin, handing the box to Sara and motioning for her to open it.

Slowly, her fingers trembling and face alight with anticipation; Sara flipped the tiny filigree latch open and peered inside. Nestled within rich velvet lining lay two blood-red silk pouches. She stared for a moment, her hand hovering before reaching out to grasp the larger bag, cautiously unknotting the thin cord holding it closed before allowing the contents to spill out into her waiting hand.

A bright rainbow of stones cascaded into her palm, a glowing stream of apple green, red, violet, emerald, sapphire, garnet, white and gold. Sara moved closer to one of the candles to get a better look at the precious gems and raised a questioning eyebrow at her companion.

"He intended to have those set into a golden girdle for his betrothed to wear upon their wedding day." Myria paused, frowning as she realized they would not have time to fulfill Grissom's wishes. "I guess we'll just have to wait until he's well to have that done. "No matter," she said with a firm shake of her head and sweep of her hand. "Open the other pouch."

Sara poured the gems back into their bag, tied the cord and placed it back in the box before gingerly lifting the other pouch. She swiftly pulled the laces free and wiggled her slim fingers into the smaller of the two silk bags. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled out two simple gold bands. For long moments she stared at the gleaming objects in her hand, rolling them in her palm, testing their weight.

"Yes, Milady," the older woman smiled in response to Sara's unspoken question. Myria reached down to grab the basket from the hearth and beckoned the Princess to follow her towards the door. "Lord Grissom has long wished to be married and have a family of his own. He desired it so much that even bought himself a ring despite the fact that most men don't wear them."

"But who did he purchase all of this for?" Sara stumbled after the chatelaine, unable to take her eyes off the rings. Her head was spinning, her heart in her throat as she swallowed bravely. "Surely he had someone in mind, someone he desired to court when he did all of this."

"He did, Lovey," Myria whispered, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind them. She continued to speak in hushed tones as she led Sara towards her chamber to help her prepare for her wedding. "Despite the fact that he long ago gave up hope that this day would ever come, there has only been one woman who has ever been able to capture his heart." Seeing the hopeful, anxious look in Sara's eyes, the older woman beamed and nodded. "Yes, Milady, you are the one whom he would choose."

**_There's always one more song to sing for the lonely _**

**_There's always one more dream to carry you along_**

**_ There's always one more eagle come flying in the morning _**

**_So hand your heart to the wind let it carry you home_**

The conspirators quietly assembled in Grissom's chambers, arriving singly or in pairs to avoid suspicion should King James or Heather happen to awaken and poke a head out the door to determine why the residents of the manor were bustling about so late in the evening. All were able to make it safely into the bedchamber without arousing any undue suspicion and Father Ralph smiled serenely, pleased that everything had managed to come together so easily.

Grissom lay abed, propped against the carved headboard, his head and shoulders cushioned by several down-filled pillows. Sandre and Berenger had managed to gently wrestle him into the wooden tub for a bath and dress him in long loose braccos and his customary black smock. His hair had been cut, washed and combed, beard trimmed and Sara's delicate Maltese Cross pendant stood out in bright contrast against the dark linen of his shirt. Gil's cheeks were flushed, his eyes fever-bright and glittering, but he seemed aware and, for the moment at least, free of delirium.

"We are going to have to make some changes to allow for Gil's condition," said Father Ralph, running his hand over his bald pate as he considered his limited options. "I don't think standing or kneeling is advisable or even a possibility for him at this point. Sara," he said, waving an arm towards the bed, "if you will simply sit beside him on the bed, we can begin."

Sara climbed gracefully onto the bed to sit next to Gil while Sandre, Berenger, Conrad, Myria, Levi and Brother Timothy moved to stand behind the Abbott at the foot of the bed. Gil cocked his head at Sara, questioning her silently as she settled in beside him and smoothed the silken skirt of her gown.

"We are getting married," she whispered. "Have you any objections?"

His eyes widened but he shook his head, a whispered "no" marking his consent. She smiled and pressed a light kiss along the edge of his beard before nodding at Father Ralph to begin.

Father Ralph tilted his head towards the ceiling and offered a silent entreaty seeking strength, guidance and forgiveness for what he was about to do. He knew deep within his heart that what he was about to do was right and just. He prayed that others, especially King James, would view it the same and not seek reprisals against either Gil or Sara. Gripping his worn Psalter tightly in his left hand, the Abbot crossed himself, drew a deep breath and began to speak.

**_So, hand your heart to the wind _**

**_Let it carry you away once again _**

**_Hand your heart to the wind _**

**_Let it carry you home_**

"Dearly beloved, children of God and children of man, we are gathered here together here in the sight of our one true Lord to join together this Man and this Woman in the rite of holy Matrimony. The union of marriage is a just and honorable estate, instituted of God in Paradise, and into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace."

Father Ralph glanced over his shoulder and arched a pointed eyebrow at the witnesses, silently daring one of them to speak. The six looked at each other before shaking their heads. The Abbott allowed himself a small grin before turning once again to Grissom and Sara.

"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, that ye confess it. For ye be well assured, that so many as be coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful."

"Do you understand what is happening," Sara whispered. "Are you aware of what we are doing?"

Grissom nodded once. "We are getting married," he whispered back, a hint of wonder in his tone.

Sara brushed an affectionate peck on the tip of his nose before speaking for both of them. "There are no such impediments. Both Gil and I are here are of own free will and there is nothing to prevent us from making this union."

"Lord Gilbert Grissom," the Abbot solemnly intoned, "son of Gustav and Roseanne, Earl of Grissomshire, Knight Hospitaller and Knight Champion of the Realm, Brother Monk of the Benedictine Order at Saint Benet's Monastery, wilt thou have this Woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"Wow," Sandre muttered to Berenger. "I never knew he had so many titles. No wonder he prefers to be called Grissom. The rest is too confusing and takes too long to say."

Myria shushed him with a hiss and impatient wave of her hand. Berenger stifled a chuckle behind his hand as everyone turned an expectant eye towards Grissom. His voice was weak but he answered in a clear voice,

"I will."

The Abbot then turned to Sara and asked the same of her.

"Princess Sara, daughter of King James and Queen Rivka, heir to the throne of England, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

Sara did not hesitate; responding to the Abbott in a strong, sure tone.

"I will."

Father Ralph faltered a moment, looking around somewhat helplessly before asking, "Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?"

"I give of myself, that which is solely mine to offer and to bestow upon the one than I have chosen."

More than pleased with the Princess' answer, Father Ralph approached the couple and joined their right hands together. Grissom looked down at their entwined hands with a look of wonder, turning them as if he had never seen such a thing. He lifted gaze back to meet Sara's and she was humbled by the almost innocent, vulnerable amazement she glimpsed within. Time seemed to stand still as she sat transfixed by the wealth of emotion - the love, the need, and the desire - swirling across his normally stoic face.

"Gil," Father Ralph prodded softly, breaking the spell, "you need to speak your vows after me."

Grissom clenched Sara's hand as tightly as he could, his strength beginning to wane as he struggled to repeat his vows. "I, Gilbert, take thee Sara to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's Holy Ordinance. Thereunto I plight to thee my troth."

"Sara, are you ready?"

"I Sara, take thee Gilbert to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's Holy Ordinance. Thereunto I plight to thee my troth."

Arching an expectant eyebrow, Father Ralph turned to Sandre and motioned impatiently to the red pouch the lad was strangling in his hand. Sandre blinked, not understanding what the Abbot was asking until Berenger gave him a solid elbow to the ribs. The lad flushed, tangling the pouch cords into a knot in his haste to untie them. When he was finally able to untangle the thin cords, he handed the rings to the Abbot with a triumphant grin.

"Bless these Rings, O merciful Lord, that those who wear them, that give and receive them, may be ever faithful to one another, remain in your peace, and live and grow old together in your love, under their own vine and fig tree, and seeing their children's children. Amen."

Father Ralph handed Grissom Sara's ring, guiding the knight's shaking hand as he fought against injury and illness to complete the ceremony. "I'll help you, son," the Abbot encouraged softly. "We are almost done. You need to repeat what I say."

"Placing the ring on Sara's thumb, they began: "With this Ring I thee wed." They moved the ring to Sara index finger while saying, "And with my body I thee honor, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow." They finally placed the ring upon Sara's fourth finger and Grissom flashed her a shy smile.

"Come on Gil," the Abbot admonished affectionately, "you'll have time to flirt later. We have a wedding to finish first." He gave Grissom's hand a gentle squeeze. "Are you ready?"

The knight gave a weak nod and Father Ralph raised Gil's hand to his chest, guiding Grissom's shaky movements as he struggled to cross himself. "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Sara, it is your turn. Sara cradled Gil's shaking hand in her own as she repeated the ritual with the ring and repeated the vows Father Ralph spoke.

"Let us pray."

"O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; Send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name. As Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so these persons may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, whereof these Rings are freely given and received is both a token and pledge, and may ever hereafter remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

Father Ralph paused and extended his arms to address all of those assembled.

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder, For as much as Gilbert and Sara have consented to be joined together forever in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of Rings, and by the joining of their hands; I pronounce therefore that they be Man and Wife together, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

The Abbot added a final blessing upon the union, crossing himself while saying, "May God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, bless, preserve, and keep you both; may the Lord mercifully with his favor look upon you and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen."

"Gil, you may kiss your bride."

The couple shared a sweet, chaste kiss, Grissom's lips, dry and chapped, caressing the moist warmth of Sara's. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and knew that he was falling back into the grip of the fever.

The others took their leave after conveying their best wishes, Conrad and Myria returning to their own quarters, Sandre and Berenger slipping off to Sandre's chamber and Brother and Timothy and Levi retiring to the chapel. Each glanced cautiously about the hallway before slipping out the door. Only Father Ralph remained with the newlyweds and he busied himself with pulling a few items from a small basket.

"Does he yet have the strength to receive the sacraments?" he finally asked, turning to address Sara as she held her new husband in her arms. "I have the Eucharistic elements with me. 'Twould bring him some comfort if he is able."

"Gris?" she said, raising his chin with her hand to gauge his expression. She swallowed against the sob building in her throat as she glimpsed the light fading from his eyes. She pasted on a false smile, asking him if he wanted to take Communion. A weak nod from her knight was the only response she received and Sara motioned for Father Ralph to proceed.

Despite the brevity of the ceremony the Abbot had performed in deference to the knight's flagging strength, Grissom was exhausted by the time the shortened communion service ended. Sara helped him slide back down beneath the blankets and cradled his head on her lap, lovingly stroking his hair as he slipped back into a troubled slumber.

**_There's always one more reason to keep you braving _**

**_There's always one more angel to carry you home _**

**_There's always one more rainbow, anywhere that you go _**

**_So hand your heart to the wind let it carry you home_**

"Sara?" Father Ralph lingered near the head of the bed, his weary features etched with sorrow as he watched his "son" sleep. "Should the worse come to pass...."

"Then this shall have been both the happiest and saddest day of my life." Her gaze remained fixed on Grissom as she spoke, unshed tears clogging her throat and stinging her eyes. "I would have preferred Gris whole and hearty for this occasion but I will never regret the decision. I know in my heart that we have done the right thing."

The Abbot laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and cleared his throat. "I would seek your permission to perform one last rite, that of Unction, before I retire to the chapel for the evening. I do not think we can chance waiting any longer."

Sara knew Father Ralph was right but she had been dreading this moment. Grissom's health was failing and their best efforts to bring him back seemed to have no effect. Gil's eyes were closed, his breathing labored and his skin was once again scalding to the touch. With a heavy heart, the Princess lightly kissed her knight's fevered brow and nodded her assent.

"Though it be unusual and not sanctioned by the church, Sara, I wish for you to lay your hand over mine as I perform the Unction. I want you to feel a part of this; especially if this is the last thing you have the opportunity to share with him. This rite is only performed when there is little or no hope left for physical recovery. You need to be prepared for that and need to help me offer him this last bit of comfort if truly we are sending him to his eternal life with God."

Father Ralph dipped his index and second fingers into the small vessel containing the Holy Oil. Sara placed her hand over his and together they touched the oil to Grissom's eyelids while Father John said, "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by sight."

Thus they continued, her delicate hand resting lightly upon the work-roughened one of the Abbot, repeating the ritual while anointing Grissom's ears, nose, lips, hand and feet. Father Ralph hesitated. There was one part of the ritual to complete, but he paused, his fingers twitching uncertainly above the laces of Grissom's braccos.

The extreme gravity of the situation notwithstanding, Sara could not help chuffing a small laugh at the Abbot's obvious embarrassment. "You needn't be discomfited, Father. I have seen Gris without his pants."

Father Ralph arched a surprised eyebrow at her, his hands fumbling with the oil. Sara flushed scarlet but gamely continued. "After he rescued me from Tarek but before he fell ill, we shared some...well...special moments."

The Abbott pulled on his beard and his brows drew together in a fierce frown as he considered this information. Grissom was not the sort of man who would force himself upon someone and he was not the sort of man who would take a virtuous woman out of wedlock. "Did Gil take advantage of you?"

"No, Father," she insisted, her dark brown hair swirling about her shoulders as she shook her head to emphasize her words. "If anything, it was the other way around. He was very hesitant but I was very insistent. It was not lust. I wanted Gris to touch me. I knew that he would be gentle and treat me with respect; that he would make me forget about what Tarek did to me. I needed to know that all such moments between men and women are not ugly and painful and full of cruelty."

"And he did all of this for you?"

Sara heard the incredulity in the Abbot's tone and failed to smother her answering grin. "Well, I am fairly certain he did it for both of us, but yes."

The Abbot faltered. He closed his eyes and prayed for guidance. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such a moment. Then again, he had never before presided over a marriage and offered the last rights to the same person at the same time, either. Father Ralph summoned his courage, for he did not know if he honestly wanted to hear the answer to his question. "Did you..."

"No." Sara's answer was emphatic. "We did not...do that. But we did touch, both of us, those private areas usually hidden by clothing."

Father Ralph cleared his throat, definitely uncomfortable with the conversation. "Sara, do you wish to privately confess your sins and repent when we are finished here."

Sara raised her chin proudly. "I have nothing to confess for I do not feel the least bit guilty about what Gris and I shared. If anything, given the gravity of his current circumstance, I shall treasure those moments for they may be all I shall ever have."

"He touched me with reverence, Father Ralph, with love. And I returned his gestures stroke for stroke, measure for measure. Yes, what we did was done out of wedlock, but I refuse to think it wrong. Nothing that felt as right as those moments can possibly be considered a sin."

"And if they be called sins, then I shall die with the eternal taint of those deeds etched deep within my heart. I will take none of it back nor will I perform a penance simply for loving him."

"Very well," the Abbot sighed, making a mental note to say an extra prayer for both Gil and Sara. "Shall we then finish the Unction?"

Sara nodded and Father Ralph handed her the vessel containing the oil. and swiftly untied Grissom pants, sliding a hand beneath his hips to pull them down.

"Oh!" he blinked, staring down at Grissom. "I was not expecting this." The Abbot glanced at Sara and, seeing the confusion on her face, hastened to explain. "Gil told me that he had made a personal sacrifice upon joining the Knights Hospitallers but I never asked what he had done."

"I don't understand."

"And I refuse to clarify," the Abbot blustered, his discomfort increasing with each passing moment. "'Tis not my place to discuss such matters." His manner softened when he saw the stricken expression on Sara's face. He did not intend to speak so harshly. "Ask him about it when he is well," he said in a much kinder tone. "I'm sure your questioning will embarrass Gil as much as it has embarrassed me."

She rewarded his smirk with one of her own and together they anointed Grissom's loins. Father Ralph muttered one more Pater Noster, crossed himself, and then ritual was complete.

"There is nothing further I can do except beseech God to see him through," he spoke heavily while carefully tucking the vial of oil back into his basket. "I leave you now to join Brother Timothy and Levi in the chapel." Reaching out to cradle her cheeks within his large hands, Father Ralph finally allowed Sara to view his full sorrow. Tears dampened his eyelashes as he turned to go. "Care for him, rest as well as you can, give him your strength and love, and above all, pray."

**_So, hand your heart to the wind _**

**_Let it carry you away once again _**

**_Hand your heart to the wind _**

**_Let it carry you home_**

During the night, the ailing knight began to toss and turn. The distressed movements of his arms and legs and hoarse mutterings roused Sara from a light doze. She watched nervously from her perch on the chair beside the bed as Grissom fought to free himself from the blankets tangled about his legs. Holding her breath, barely daring to hope, her eyes widened as a fine line of perspiration dotted along his brow. His face flushed bright red, the beads of sweat growing larger and dampening his hair into tight curls along his hairline before sliding down his temples and cheeks to darken his beard. He shuddered uncontrollably, soaking his clothing and bed linens, as the fever finally broke.

**_Let it carry you home_**

**_Carry you home1_**

1 John Stewart, "Hand Your Heart to the Wind," Bombs Away Dream Babies, by John Stewart, RSO, 1979.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen **

**"That Was Yesterday"**

**_Time moves like a river_**

**_You can either sink or swim_**

**_And a wise man learns to forgive her_**

**_For all she's done to him_**

**_And no one's getting younger_**

**_And a few aren't getting old_**

**_It's all in what you feel_**

**_And not in what you're told_**

Bright sunlight filtered through the large window in Grissom's bedchamber that had been cracked open to allow a crisp, frosty breeze to circulate and remove the taint of illness from the room; the cloying odor of fear, perspiration and sorrow. Fresh herbs and dried flowers had been liberally scattered on the stone floor to further aid in freshening the small room. A fire blazed cheerfully, and a small pot of bubbling porridge hung suspended on a blackened iron arm over the flames.

Grissom lay abed reclining comfortably against a large stack of pillows as Sara sat next to him feeding him porridge from a small earthenware bowl. A faint blush dusted his cheekbones; he was unaccustomed to such attention when recovering from illness or injury and embarrassed that anyone, especially Sara, bore witness to his weakened state. Gris had given up trying to wrest the spoon from her grasp in an attempt to feed himself and allowed his head to rest gently on her shoulder, indulging her and relaxing beneath her tender care.

"It smells like a lady's salon in here," James announced as he strode through the open door and scrunched his nose at the almost overpowering floral aroma rising from the herbs strewn across the floor.

Grissom rolled his eyes and shifted slightly to lean against the pillows instead of Sara. "Yes, well, Myria and Sara thought my chamber reeked too much of illness and unwashed men for their liking. I had no choice in the matter." He had barely finished speaking before Sara shoved another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. Gris cast an uneasy glance towards the King as Sara scraped the wooden utensil along the bottom of the bowl and raised the last bite to his lips.

The King's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched the interaction between his daughter and his knight. There seemed to be a newfound intimacy about them, a closeness that had not existed before Sara was taken. They behaved like a couple, communicating silently with gesture and expression while exchanging and accepting small touches almost casually, as if it were a common occurrence and something they had been doing for years.

"Heather and I are leaving today," James began, clearing his throat to gain their attention. "There are matters requiring my attention and I have neglected overlong." He regarded his daughter with a small smirk, knowing well that his next words would not be taken well. "Sara, will you leave us please?"

Biting her tongue to choke back a mutinous response, Sara shot her father an evil glare. She took an inordinate amount of time seeing to her knight's comfort, smoothing his tousled hair from his forehead and pressing a warm kiss atop the scar marring his brow. Handing Grissom another cup of tea and gathering the breakfast tray with a noisy clatter of dishes, spoons and mugs, the Princess paused to send her father with one last angry stare before flouncing angrily from the room, slamming the door behind her.

James watched her go, the amused glint in his eye recognizing all too well that if looks could kill the dark, dangerous glower in his daughter's eyes would have skewered him as fatally as any well-honed sword. A grin still played upon his lips as he lowered himself into the chair by the head of Grissom's bed and turned his attention to the wounded knight. "Tell me what happened."

"I'm sure you already know," Grissom replied in a bland voice while blowing on his tea.

"Humor me." James leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair and stretched his legs out before him. "I have talked to both Sara and your young boy, Sandre, but I want to hear the whole story from you before confronting Nikolai, Varrick and anyone else who might be involved in all of this."

Grissom inclined his head towards the hearth where a kettle spewed a steady fragrant steam of chamomile and an empty mug sat waiting. He arched an eyebrow in silent question, reclining once more upon his pillows when James refused with a quick dismissive wave of his hand.

James steepled his fingers beneath his chin and drew a deep breath, bracing himself for the difficult conversation. "You killed Tarek."

"I did," the knight nodded.

"Sandre assured me that the deed was done in just and honorable combat and that you had no choice in the matter."

Grissom heaved a heavy sigh. "Honorable it might have been, but I did have a choice in that I could have easily disarmed Tarek at the onset of the duel but did not." James eyebrows rose in question but he remained silent and motioned for Grissom to continue. "For the first time in my long career as a warrior, I allowed emotion to overpower my judgment."

"That's … not like you," James commented softly, scooting his chair closer to the bed. "You've never before permitted feelings to dictate your actions."

Ducking his head in an attempt to avoid James' scrutinizing gaze, worried that his old companion might discern the true reason that had compelled him to finally take on his brother, Grissom cleared his throat and plucked at the edge of his heavy wool blanket. "Towards the end, when he his strength was waning, I could see through the madness in his eyes a single moment of clarity, that he finally understood that he could not defeat me and that no one was willing to give him aid. He charged me at that point," Gil continued in a flat monotone, running a hand over the thick wadding of bandages tied securely about his thigh, "and impaled himself on my sword either before or as we tumbled together down a flight of stairs."

"You think it was a conscious decision on his part?"

"That he chose a coward's end?" Grissom closed his eyes and leaned back, resting against the headboard as he considered the question. "Yes," he finally said, opening his eyes to meet the King's gaze. "He rushed me only when it became clear to him that he had no hope of besting me." He thought back for a moment, recalling the look on Tarek's face when Nik refused to fight. "He feared death at that moment much less than he feared your wrath. He saw me as the lesser of two evils and, as usual," he shrugged, "chose the easy way out."

"And it was Tarek who took my daughter? It was he who tried to defile her?"

Grissom cocked his head to the side, choosing his words carefully in an attempt to spare Nik and Varrick as much as possible. "Tarek did not physically remove her from your keep," he said slowly, "but it was ultimately upon his orders that the deed was done."

Jim motioned that Grissom should go on. "He then tried to take her much against her will, in all ways and manner of speak. I was able to reach him and pull him off of her before he fully completed the act...before he took her maidenhood."

James stood abruptly and paced about the chamber. "I like to think that I am a fair man, Gil, but I can honestly say that I do not know how I would have reacted had he been alive when he reached my door. Had he chosen to harm me, that is one thing, but to harm my daughter? That is an entirely different matter. Ultimately you were far more gentle with him than I would have been."

"Perhaps," the knight replied thoughtfully, toying with the cross pendant hanging around his neck, frowning inwardly as he recognized it as Sara's. His mind raced, recalling fragments of … something. His eyes closed and his face tightened in concentration as he churned the disjointed memories over and over in his mind, finally releasing a small hiss of frustration when he failed to remember precisely how he came to be in possession of her pendant. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and returned his attention the King.

"Bah," huffed James, slashing a hand through the air. "Don't waste your time stewing about him," he said, thinking Grissom's dark turn of mood had to do with Tarek. "The bastard deserved to die and should have been killed long ago. 'Twas only the fact that he was your brother that kept his petty, arrogant head off my chopping block all these many years. I'll waste no time mourning his passing," the King stated bluntly, no emotion in his tone. "He'll be denied a funeral Mass and proper burial. His corpse will be burned and his ashes scattered deep in a forest as far away from all of us as my borders shall allow."

**_Oh you can't go back to Kansas_**

**_I was there just yesterday_**

**_Oh you can't go back to Kansas_**

**_It just up and blew away_**

**_Oh, but I will go on loving you_**

**_It's easier that way_**

**_But you can't go back to Kansas_**

**_'Cause that was yesterday_**

"What of Nikolai and Varrick? I noticed your young squire strutting like a proud cock while brandishing Varrick's blade about for all to see. He was the envy of the courtyard."

Grissom chuffed a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling with delight at the thought of Sandre preening before the other squires. "The lad managed to disarm the good knight quite fairly so the blade is his to keep." His face grew somber again as he addressed the King's question. "Sandre should have told you where to find Nik and Varrick. Both knights swore an oath to remain at the inn until you sent for them. They willingly laid down their weapons and refused to fight against me or take up arms in defense of Tarek."

"Then what part did they actually play in all of this?" James tone carried a hint of exasperation. "You implied that they were merely carrying out orders as opposed to being in league with the villain."

"They were nothing more than convenient pawns," Grissom confirmed with a firm nod of his head. "The kidnapping of your daughter was presented to them as a training exercise, a game for the squires to hone their skills. Sara was not to have been harmed in any way and the squires were to have used their cunning and training to try to rescue her."

"And they believed that?" the King asked, his voice incredulous as he threw his hands in the air. "Nik knows how protective I am of Sara. How could he possibly believe I would think up such a game and put her daughter at risk?" James stopped pacing and whirled to face Grissom, nailing the knight to the bed with a steely glare. "The only other person who could issue such an order on my behalf is you as my knight-champion."

Grissom reared back as if struck beneath the weight of the King's thinly veiled accusation. James blinked at the knight's horrified expression, unaccustomed to seeing such an emotional response from the normally stoic Black Monk. The King knew full well that Grissom would never, could never be involved in a plot against him or one that would ultimately cause Sara harm, but he had to be absolutely certain before going any further.

His gaze softened, an apology surfacing in his dark eyes as he made his way back to the bed. "Gil, I know that you would never commit such an act. Your loyalty and honor are and have always been above reproach and you would never put Sara at risk." He reclaimed his seat and ran a hand through his thinning hair as he thought aloud. "But if neither you nor I issued such an order, who then would have had the stones and the authority to willfully commit such a treasonous act?"

Grissom sighed heavily. "Sofia."

James' eyes widened. "So it _**IS**_ true? You know this for a fact?"

Grissom nodded glumly, his eyes cast down so he would not have to see the pain his King could not hide. "Nikolai said it she who gave the order. Nik would not have given the command any credence had it come from Tarek for he would have seen it for the lie that it was."

"Does my own wife revile me so much that she would murder my daughter rather than seek vengeance upon my own frame? I know I have flaunted Heather in front of her at every turn, but I have not mistreated her. I have seen to Nikolai's upbringing as if he were my own and have given him every advantage befitting a King's son. Sofia has free rein to do as she pleases. I am kind to her, give her anything and everything that she asks for."

"Except yourself?"

"Yes," he sighed, "except myself."

"She and Tarek were lovers. For how long, I don't know. If such details are important, then perhaps Nikolai or even Berenger can provide you with an answer. They saw an opportunity to join forces and hatch a plot to enact revenge upon both you and me at the same time."

King's head resting on his chest, deep in thought.

"When did Nikolai and Varrick discover that they had been deceived?"

"When Sandre and I were the only ones who arrived to rescue Sara. They were expecting a host of fumbling squires."

"And got the Black Monk," James replied with a satisfied nod. He paused for a long moment, watching Grissom carefully. "You believe them." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Nikolai cannot lie," Gris said simply. "His face gives him away."

"What should be done with them?"

"Punish them unjustly and you will foster their hatred. Treat them fairly, and with forgiveness, and you will again own their loyalty and trust."

"And where, exactly, does Nik's loyalty lie?"

"You'll have to ask Nik but since he lay down his arms and named his mother as the one responsible, I would say that his loyalties lie with what is right and honorable and not necessarily with blood."

"Or he may have been simply trying to save his own skin."

"Perhaps," Grissom replied with a touch of asperity, "but I tend to think that he is more honorable than self-serving."

The King raised his hands in surrender, accepting Grissom's assessment of Nik's involvement and character. "What do I do about Sofia?

"'Tis neither my right nor my desire to judge the actions of others," the knight said softly.

"Gil, you're not blind, nor are you deaf. You and Sofia have remained close friends these many years. I'm sure you have a fairly good idea of what might have compelled her to seek an alliance with Tarek."

"I'll not speculate on such matters," Gil stated firmly, shaking his head, refusing to hurl his boyhood friend's shortcomings back in his face. James knew well enough Sofia's motives and the cause of her unhappiness without having salt rubbed into an open, bleeding wound. "This plot against you," he began, skirting the subject, "while treacherous and well planned, was successfully thwarted and no one, save Tarek, is worse for the wear. Sara is strong; in time she will heal and make her peace with what was done to her."

"You're right," James murmured, his tone distant as he looked beyond Grissom to the open window. "Sara is strong, and willful, just like her mother. As the bruises fade, so will her nightmares and her memories. She'll not allow this to haunt her overlong."

"Sire," Gil said, smirking at James' startled expression as the older man pulled his gaze from the window. Titles and formalities between the two ceased to exist many years ago and the King returned Grissom's grin with a small smile of his own, knowing Gil used the honorific to bring him back from painful memories of his beloved Rivka. Nodding his thanks, James refocused his attention on the knight and indicated that he should continue.

"I would not presume to tell you what to do, especially where your own wife is concerned, but I pray you be gentle. Show her now what you have been unable to these past fifteen years. Her pain runs deep and she is deserving of compassion.

James bowed his head, chin resting on his chest as he mulled over Grissom's words. Gil watched him over the rim of his mug as he finished his tea, wondering what his old companion was thinking. The knight knew better than anyone the harsh path his King's vengeance could travel and he questioned James' ability to simply accept what had been done and allow Sofia some measure of dignity in his quest for revenge.

**_I see the sun rise and fall_**

**_I can feel the earth beneath my shoes_**

**_There's no need in you believing_**

**_That you were born and cursed to lose_**

**_So why not go on dreaming then_**

**_Yeah, take anyone you choose_**

**_There's nothing to be down about_**

**_'Cause you either win or lose_**

James slapped his hands against his thighs and stood abruptly. "Now, what should I do with you?" He fought a grin as Grissom arched a curious eyebrow. "You have earned a hefty reward, my friend."

Grissom scowled and James chuckled. "Somehow I didn't think more gold would interest you, although Tarek's lands have been added to your considerable holdings."

"Give them to Sandre," the knight grumbled in a low growl. "I've no use for them."

Eyes twinkling, James laughed lightly, his enjoyment evident in his teasing tone. "At the rate you are amassing property, Gil, you're holdings will soon exceed mine."

"Beati pusperes spiritu:" Grissom intoned softly. "Quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum."

"In English, Gil," the king protested lightly. "You know full well that despite the noble efforts of old Father Matthias, I worked very hard at ignoring my Latin studies."

Grissom flashed an innocent smirk. "I but quoted the Gospel of Saint Matthew, chapter five, verse three."

"And you also know that the scriptures were the only lessons I avoided more than Latin."

"Very well" came the aggrieved sigh. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

James shook his head. "I should have known. But, the fact remains that you are now the rightful owner of all of Tarek's holdings and wealth. He forfeited the rights of his sons by committing treason against me and you have won them fairly by besting the treacherous cur in battle on my behalf."

"I know you'll not approve, but I'll be sending the family away. I'll allow them to live as I know they had no part in Tarek's plans, but I need to take some sort of action, to set an example."

Grissom pursed his lips and stared into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker as he recalled his own banishment. "In many ways, exile is far worse than a date with the executioner." His voice was soft and distant, colored with memories best forgotten and lost to time. "Not a day goes by when you do not pray to return home or hope that you might die to be released from the terrible loneliness." He shook his head as if to banish the painful recollections and returned his attention to his King.

"Tarek's oldest son, Berenger," he began, clearing his throat to relieve the unwelcome tightness brought about by thoughts of his long ago punishment, "is the one who told me Sara was in danger. He took a great risk in seeking me out." Grissom paused, watching James' reaction carefully. "Berenger wishes to stay here and train as a squire. His deeds have earned him that right."

"Very well," James nodded, agreeing immediately. "I am indebted to him and, as you said, he has earned the right. However, for now I have to take him with me and place him under guard until such a time as I decide how best to handle this situation." Grissom frowning. "Gil, I give you my word as King and friend that Berenger will be well-cared for and not mistreated. He'll be housed in the barracks with Nik and Varrick."

Grissom nodded and stared expectantly at the King. James calmly returned his gaze and had to fight a grin when the knight frowned. The stand off continued for a few more moments until James gave in with a small smile. "As for the boy, Sandre, fear not. I give you my word that he shall be handsomely rewarded as well."

The King settled gently on the edge of the bed and clasped his hands together to conceal a sudden nervous tremor. "Gil," James said, his eyes downcast and voice shaking, "we've one more matter to settle; one that is many years overdue a conversation, a confession and a resolution."

**_Oh, I can't go back to Kansas_**

**_I was there just yesterday_**

**_Oh, I can't go back to Kansas_**

**_It just up and blew away_**

**_So I will go on loving you_**

**_It's easier that way_**

**_But you can't go back to Kansas_**

**_'Cause that was yesterday_**

Long hours passed before King James finally emerged from Grissom's chamber. Sara's heart leapt into her throat at the sight of her father for his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Grabbed her father's arm, alarm written all over her face. Feared that Grissom had somehow taken another turn for the worse. She and Father Ralph were fresh out of miracles.

"Easy daughter," he rasped, his voice strained, the lines around his mouth and eyes tight and more pronounced. Gazing upon his familiar features, Sara was startled by a newly found awareness, a stark realization that her father was not a young man anymore. For the first time she could remember, he looked weary and worn, as if the responsibilities of the entire world rested heavily upon his shoulders and threatened to crush him beneath their staggering weight. "All is well," he sighed. "Gil is very much alive and fever-free; he's sleeping now."

Sara blinked, her moment of clarity fading as she concentrated on her father's words. "If everything is fine, then why do you look as if you've lost your best friend?"

"'Tis not what I've lost but rather what I've found again." James grasped her smaller hand in his own and squeezed lightly, his gesture and pained-filled eyes beseeching her not to press the issue overmuch. "Not now, child." He patted her hand gently as he had when she was a young girl frightened by a terrible storm or strange noises in the night. "I am too raw to retell the tale right now. Ask me again in a few days."

Sara nodded her acceptance, and followed her father down the hall, throwing a longing look at Grissom's door as she passed.

"Heather and I are leaving now," her father threw back over his shoulder as he started down the stairs. You may come with us or you may stay. I leave the choice and the decision to you."

"I am staying with Grissom," she replied calmly.

James nodded and turned to present an elbow to Heather who stood waiting for him by the door. "Take care, daughter, and have Gil bring you back to me when he is able to travel."

Sara hugged James and Heather goodbye and watched their departure from the open door of the Great Hall. When the carriage was out of sight, she swung the door closed, scurried up the stairs and slipped into Grissom's chambers. Despite her father's assurance, she had to see him for herself, feel his cool brow beneath her own fingertips.

He was asleep, a dark frown marring his exhausted features. Sara soothed her fingertips across the deep furrows cutting his brow. Grissom released a sigh of contentment and relaxed further, sinking deeper into the down pillows as she continued her loving ministrations. Once satisfied he was sleeping peacefully, the Princess pulled the blankets more snuggly about his shoulders and dropped a small kiss on his furry chin.

Sara snatched a blanket from the foot of the bed and curled up in the wooden chair near Grissom's head. Worry and the physical labor involved in caring for Gil had taken a toll on her and she soon drifted off in her uncomfortable make-shift bed.

**_But you can't go back to Kansas_**

**_'Cause that was yesterdayi_**

i John Stewart, "You Can't Go Back to Kansas," The Phoenix Concerts, by John Stewart, RCA, 1974.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

A/N: Sometimes I forget, but that does not mean that I am not grateful. I really do need to give Cincoflex her props. She is an amazing beta and an amazing friend.

**Chapter Nineteen**

** "There is Something Haunting Me"**

_**Every prayer I could be praying, every promise I'm betraying**_

_**Every price that I am paying, is like a ghost inside of me**_

_**Every road I could be taking, every dream I am forsaking**_

_**Every heart that's out there breaking, is like a ghost inside of me**_

Sara stood before the window gazing out upon the moonlit snow as she brushed her hair and prepared for bed. The weight of Grissom's brooding stare tingled along her spine and tickled the fine curling wisps at the nape of her neck. She knew he was watching her, following her movements about the room with glowing intensity. The heat of his piercing gaze burned brighter than the dancing fire, searing along her nerves and settling sweetly between her thighs with a heady, sensual glow.

Huffing a frustrated sigh, she laid her forehead against the frosty window and squeezed her legs together in an effort to ease the growing ache churning deep within her woman's body. A glance over her shoulder affirmed Grissom's continued perusal and Sara turned from the window slowly, adding a sway to her hips as she made her way to towards the fireplace, dropping her brush on the low work table before kneeling on the hearth. Confident of his attention, she purposely bent lower than necessary while reaching for a kettle, her breasts swelling dangerously against the low neckline of nightgown. A small knowing grin crossed her lips as Grissom softly cleared his throat and shifted restlessly on the mattress.

As she went through the now familiar motions of preparing tea, she thought back on all that happened since her father and Heather had departed, the turbulent eddy and flow of emotion that had crashed between the two of them throughout the day. Sara paused to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes as she waited for the kettle to boil, allowing herself to recall the various joys and sorrows of the afternoon.

Perhaps she had been expecting too much from Grissom after he had woken from his nap. He was still weak from his life or death battle with the fever and the morning conversation with her father had seemed to sap his strength. But the look in his eyes as he gazed upon her, the depth of warmth of feeling he showed had given her cause to hope.

Grissom roused from slumber before she and Sara opened her eyes to find him rolled on his side, head propped on hand; his expression both tender and curious as he watched her doze in her wooden chair beside the bed.

"How do you feel?" she yawned, indulging in a leisurely stretch to loosen her cramped muscles. "Did you sleep well?"

She smiled brightly in response to his wordless nod and moved to perch on the mattress beside him. Grissom hesitantly reached up a single trembling finger to trace the happiness and relief shining upon her face.

"What?"

"You did not leave."

Sara grinned and dropped her eyes, suddenly shy.

"Father said it was my choice."

"And you chose to stay here...with me?" Incredulous as if he could not fathom why she would do such a thing.

"I did." Her reply was swift and confident.

"Because ..." Grissom struggled, needing an answer but not knowing how to ask.

Sara heart clenched, stung by the implications of his unspoken question. She knew that his fear of being regarded as only a knight and not a man ran deep and that he might actually believe that she had remained out of pity or because she felt some sort of obligation. Plus, she had been warned that Grissom might not remember their wedding ceremony. Even if he did, he might discount the memories as nothing more than remnants of the fever dreams and never speak of them. Still, it hurt that he continued to harbor doubts with regard to her affection, her overwhelming love for him.

Drawing a calming breath, Sara squared her shoulders and brushed aside the pain. She unlaced her fingers from his and laid her hands upon his cheeks, thumbs stroking softly along the edge of his beard as she regarded him with a solemn expression.

"What do I have to say to convince you?" she questioned with quiet sincerity. "I am here because I choose to be here...with you. I want to be here...with you. I need to be here...with you. I did not remain to assuage some misplaced sense of guilt or duty but because my heart binds me to you and refuses to let me go." She paused, giving him time to digest the sincerity of her declaration before continuing. "Sir Gilbert the Black Monk will always be my fabled hero but Gris, my Gris, the man beneath the gleaming armor, will always be my true hero and my true love."

Grissom's confusion slowly morphed from disbelief to amazement as he pondered her words. Finally, his eyes cleared and a small cautious smile appeared.

"You're happy."

He nodded his agreement. "I am."

She beamed at him, leaning down to nuzzle his beard. They shared a gentle kiss, one soft peck leading to another before the rumble of Grissom's stomach shattered the mood. Sara placed her forehead on his, chuckling softly as he flushed with embarrassment. She dropped a light kiss on his nose and rose from the bed.

"I'm just going down to see if Myria will prepare us a tray. You need to eat as much as you need to sleep. You need to regain the strength that the fever stole from you."

Sara poured the tea from the kettle and added a dollop of honey to each mug. She rose and smiled as she made her way to the bed, remembering with humor Grissom's reaction to their meal of pottage, smoked fish, bread, cheese and milk. While pleased with the pottage and bread, she could not help but laugh softly as she recalled the way his nose scrunched in distaste over the fish and how he had unceremoniously tried to shove it all over to her side of the trencher.

"Myria warned me you would do that," she said, her eyes sparkling, grinning widely at Grissom's look of feigned innocence. "But she said you need to eat it. She would have preferred to feed you some roasted pork but thought since you have not had such fare for close to thirty years it might cause more harm than good." Sara rolled her eyes at his scowl, placing a warm hand on his arm while he fiddled with the fish on his plate. "She is just concerned about you as well."

He grumbled but ate, shooting her a dark look with every bite and washing each mouthful down with a gulp of cold milk.

Now, as she lay propped against the headboard sipping tea in silent companionship with her quiet knight, Sara mulled over the course of action she was about to take. They needed to talk about their marriage but there were other matters that required resolution, shadows from the past that needed to be brought forth and put to rest before they could move forward.

"I need to ask you about something," she began hesitantly, "and I need you to answer me truthfully."

She felt him stiffen a bit beneath her and she slipped her hand beneath his sleeveless black undershirt to rub his torso in long soothing strokes, smoothing away his anxiety. Sara propped her chin on his broad chest and watched him carefully. "What happened after your dubben to cause you to be exiled?"

A flash of pain, or perhaps sorrow crossed his face before he wiped all trace of emotion from his features. "Where," he growled, his voice low and harsh, "did you hear that?"

"From Tarek."

Grissom grunted but made no other effort to reply.

"And then, in your delirium, you apologized over and over for my mother's death. You pleaded with either my father or my grandfather to not send you away." He winced and closed his eyes against the memories she was bringing back to the surface. "I have asked Heather and Father Ralph about those days and they refuse to answer, saying I must talk to you or father.

"Will you tell me, Gris?"

"Remember when I told you that some memories are best left buried lest they fester anew. This is one of those."

"I need to know," she stated simply, easing away from him to lie on her side. She knew he would need some distance for this.

He remained silent, staring at the ceiling for a long time before speaking. "The easy answer and simple truth is what I told you not so long ago. Shortly after my dubben I was sent by your grandfather to the Holy Land to train with the Knights Hospitaller." Rolls his head on the pillow to look at her. "But, you're right, there's much more to the story."

"Tell me."

_**Look around, around, look around**_

_**Every time I turn around**_

_**I'm not who I ought to be**_

_**Down, down, it gets me down**_

_**If every time I look around**_

_**There is something haunting me**_

"Your grandfather presented me with Grissomshire as a reward for attaining my knighthood and as a gift for my twenty-first birthday," he began, his eyes clouding over as the distant memories came rushing back. "I traveled to my new home shortly after my dubben to acquaint myself with the duties and responsibilities of being a landowner. Up until that point, I had never possessed anything of my own. I also spent much time making various journeys on your grandfather's behalf and acting in his stead to settle minor disputes. I was two days ride from the keep when news of your mother's death reached me ..."

_Grissom raced through the inner bailey and reined his mount to a skidding halt with a hard jerk of the bridle. He vaulted from the saddle and looked about, surprised that Dickie had not emerged from the large stable to assist with his charger. The normally bustling courtyard was quiet and still, the silence broken only by an eerie wail crying out from the depths of the black-shrouded keep. _

_He led his horse inside the darkened stable and tended to the lathered stallion himself. Removing his sword, dagger and belt, the young knight hung them carefully on a nearby armor stand before quickly stripping off his heavy maille, gambeson and padded leggings. Gil quickly washed the road grime and sweat from his face, neck and hands in the horse trough. He re-fastened his thick belt back around his slim waist, untangling the rawhide laces holding his Prayer Beads as he strode swiftly towards the keep._

_Pausing in the center of the bailey, Grissom slowly turned in a small circle, overwhelmed by the changes that had occurred in the previous two days. The King's Royal Banners that normally hung from tall windows had been replaced by ones of pure black, magnificent twin wreaths fashioned from evergreens and red roses graced the massive twin doors. The standards that normally flew high above the keep had been replaced as well and nearly every available surface now wore some ebon-hued robe, as if the entire Royal Castle had been completely enshrouded in mourning._

_Grissom shouldered open one of the large oaken doors and moved hesitantly inside. For the first time in memory, the vast hall, site of so many celebrations and gatherings, was empty. All of the normal tapestries depicting the important triumphs in the reign of King Radulfus had been overhung with heavy black drapes and the fireplaces, despite the chill in the air, remained unlit. Gil's leather boots echoed loudly on the stone floor, the clanging of his golden spurs piercing the silence as he approached the center of the room the ornate mahogany platform resting in the center of the room._

_The Hall had been laid out for the funeral. Grissom ran his hands over the ornate carvings on the platform, his touch reverent as he traced the smooth likenesses of the saints and the risen Christ, remembering it had last been used to hold the casket of James' mother, Marianna not so long ago. Low rough-hewn benches had been laid out neatly in rows, the King's massive throne and padded chairs for Prince James and Princess Sara sitting at the forefront, directly before the catafalque. An enormous crucifix of olive wood, one Grissom himself had shipped home to Radulfus from his pilgrimages to the Holy Land hung from the wall behind a dais from which Father Matthias would speak. The young man, who was yet half monk and half knight, knelt before the simple crucifix and crossed himself, offering a brief prayer for James and Sara._

_Grissom mumbled one last Psalm and turned to make his way up the stairs. Little Sara was waiting for him on the last step and flung herself into his waiting arms, hiding her face in his neck as she wept, her tears dampening his travel-soiled tunic. He rubbed her back and wiped away her tears, murmuring how sorry he was and how everything would be better tomorrow. Gil carried her to her room and sat her gently on the bed as he stooped to stir the fire to chase away the chill that had settled in her lonely chamber._

"_Sara, Lemman, where is your father?" he asked, his tone gentle._

"_He is in the chapel. Everyone is afraid of him right now because he is so angry. Grandfather is the only one brave enough to talk to him." The child looked up at him with huge, pleading eyes. "You'll talk to him, won't you? And make him quit being so mean to everyone?"_

"I remember," Sara murmured, her voice wistful and eyes wet with unshed tears. She gripped Grissom's hand tightly and pulled him closer until she could lay her head on his shoulder. "You sat down on the bed with me and I crawled onto your lap. You told me stories of brave knights and beautiful princesses until I fell asleep." He nodded, rubbing a calloused thumb over her delicate knuckles. "And when I woke up the next morning and went to find you for breakfast, you were gone."

_Grissom held the young Princess tightly against his chest, rocking and comforting her until Sara's breathing deepened and she relaxed fully against him. He rose slowly, taking care not to wake her, and placed her tenderly on the bed. As he tucked the blankets around her shoulders and smoothed the dark hair from her brow, the young knight marveled at the innocence of her slumbering face. He stoked a gentle finger along her silky cheek and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead, allowing a small, sad smile in response to her sleep-filled sigh. Gil walked towards the door and cast a last glance over his shoulder, not knowing that seven long, lonely years would pass before seeing her again._

"I finally found your father in the chapel. He was just sitting beside your mother, holding her lifeless hand between both of his. I tried to talk to him but he was unreachable. He railed at me, screamed at me, pounded on me. He said that I was responsible for your mother's death. Had I not been trying to curry favor with your grandfather and seeing to the King's affairs, the accident would never have happened. Had I truly been a good and loyal friend, I would have been at the keep to serve as your mother's escort that day and Rivka would have not died."

Grissom looked at Sara and wiped away a lone tear as it slid down her cheek. "Your father was not himself, Leof-mon, there was no reasoning with him. In his madness he beat me half to death. Had your grandfather not called in the Household Guard to pull him off of me, he would most likely have killed me. Grissom sighed, resting his head on Sara's shoulder as he finished his tale. "James demanded that your grandfather punish me and I was sent away. I think Radulfus agreed to the exile in order to protect me, but it was many years before your father allowed me to return home."

"And the mark above your brow?" she questioned. "How did you get that? You spoke of it in your madness."

"'Tis from your father's mourning ring." Gris flashed her a bleak look. "'Twas my poor luck the goldsmith presented it to him right before my arrival." He rubbed a finger over the small divot. "He scarred me so I would never forget."

Grissom levered up on one elbow and leaned over Sara's prone form to rummage through the drawer of the small bedside table. He retrieved a small leather pouch and dropped it on her stomach as he lay back down. Sara upended the pouch and scooped up the lone object it contained, turning it over and over in her hand as her eyes brimmed with tears. She gazed at the golden ring and ran a trembling finger over the single jet-black stone.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, carefully lifting the stone to stroke the lock of her mother's hair hidden beneath.

"Your father gave it to me when we spoke earlier."

"He had it with him?" She glanced up at him, her surprise clearly written on her face. "I have not seen him wear it in years, not since Heather became a fixture at the castle."

"He kept it in a small pouch attached to his belt."

"But why did he give it to you?"

"To give up the past and make amends. I was not allowed to pay your mother my final respects, offer a prayer or attend the funeral. He gave me this so I might finally mourn and bury a few of my own ghosts."

"And have you?"

Sara watched him shrug with pretended indifference, knowing full well that despite her father's apology and attempt to return some of what he had taken, Gil would never be able to completely forget those dark times. Like the blemish above his brow, the memories, the sorrow and the persistent melancholy would never fully fade.

"I was only five when Moder died. I understood that she was gone for good and would never return. That was the easy part, I suppose. The harder matter was having Daddy so enmeshed in his own grief and anger that he ceased to be a parent. I thought blamed ME for Mama's death. Days and even weeks at a time would pass where I would not see him at all. It was if he could not bear to be in the same room or even look at me."

"You look just like your Mother, Sara," he murmured softly, coiling a strand of her dark brown hair around his finger. "You reminded him of everything he had lost. He loved your mother, deeply. Her death wounded a part of him that has finally begun to heal."

"It was a very unhappy time for all of us it seems."

Grissom nodded his head in agreement.

"My mother died, my father was inconsolable and my favorite person in the whole world vanished. I thought you had died as well until you suddenly returned several years later," she said, stroking a gentle finger along his cheek, "with this beard and the saddest, loneliest eyes I had ever seen."

"You still have that look, you know," she murmured, smoothing over the eyebrow he had arched in question. "Every time you have tried to tell me why I mustn't love you and why we cannot marry or be together as man and woman, your eyes are just as lonely and sad as they were when you returned from exile."

_**Every friend I am deserting, with every danger I am flirting**_

_**Every word that ends up hurting, is like a ghost inside of me**_

_**Every heart that I could be cheering, every love that I am fearing**_

_**Every cry that I am hearing, is like a ghost inside of me**_

"Given what you have now told me," Sara said, returning to the bed with two more steaming cups of tea, "nothing Tarek said makes sense." She handed Grissom both mugs and slid beneath the blankets, noting his curious expression as she reached for her mug. "He said that HE caused you to be exiled. I don't remember him being about the keep at the time of my mother's death and I know with certainty that you weren't there, either."

A curious lift of his eyebrow had Sara glancing into her mug, a delightful blush coloring her cheeks. "Even as a small girl," she said shyly, "I was very aware of when you were and weren't in the castle."

Grissom's breath caught, warmth spreading through his chest. He graced her with a rare boyish grin before turning his thoughts back towards his brother.

"Sara, as far as I know, Tarek was not…" His eyes narrowed as he thought back, trying to piece together everything he knew about the circumstances surrounding Rivka's death.

"He lied to you," Grissom finally said, his tone flat and void of emotion as he scrubbed a hand through his beard. "He did not directly cause my exile, but, looking back at all that has transpired these past fifteen years, I can state with some certainty that he did bring about your mother's death. My banishment was something he could not have foreseen although he probably crowed like a preening cock throughout my prolonged absence."

"Gris, Moder was thrown from her horse. It was an accident. How could Tarek have made that happen, especially if he wasn't there?"

"Geoffrey and his brother Rayner were her escorts that day. She wanted your father to go riding with her but his duties kept him chained to the keep." Grissom smirked beautifully at the look of puzzlement in Sara's eyes. He huffed a quiet chuckle as he explained. "In his younger years, your father wanted nothing to do with the duties and responsibilities inherent with his position as heir to the throne. Radulfus feared he would be leaving his kingdom to the village idiot as opposed to a capable ruler. He ordered your father to attend some land negotiations with Frederick of Bavaria and Geoffrey and Rayner were sent to serve as your mother's escorts."

"I am obviously missing something," Sara said, "because I don't understand how Geoffrey and Rayner serving as escorts make Tarek responsible."

"Geoffrey, and Rayner, were my brother's puppets," Grissom intoned flatly. "You know Geoffrey gave me these," he said, pointing to the thin white blemish on his cheek before yanking up his sleeveless undershirt shirt to reveal the long, thick scar running the length of his chest, "and that I killed him." He waited for her nod before pulling his shirt back down and continuing in the same, dull monotone. "Tarek paid him to murder me."

_The wind was harsh, the cool desert night filled with blowing sand and the sound of rippling canvas. A thin ginger haired man, pointed features concealed beneath a woolen cowl, crouched beside a large tent. He glanced over his shoulder, looking left and right, listening carefully for any signal that his hurried passage through the sleeping camp had been detected. A horse snorted and stamped restlessly, the sentries talked quietly among themselves around a small fire. All was as it should be; no one was the wiser._

_Drawing a long-bladed knife from the leather scabbard on his belt, the hashshashin gingerly placed the cold metal between his teeth, freeing his gloved hands to fumble with the stiff leather straps securing the tent flap. He eased the oiled cover open just enough to slip inside amidst a gritty cloud of swirling sand and quickly pulled it closed. _

_The interior of the tent was far darker than the sand-swept desert and the hashshashin stood quietly, years of training compelling him to remain still while patiently waiting for his eyes to adjust. He could just barely make out the sleeping form of his prey stretched out upon a thin pallet of straw. A hurried glance towards the corner of the tent assured him that the troublesome lad his prey had adopted as a squire was sleeping soundly. He waited until the boy snuffled a loud snore to strike, striding forward to swiftly plunge the dagger into the chest of the sleeping man._

_Grissom shot upright, his eyes wide open in panic as the icy steel blade pierced his skin and sliced downward, freezing his flesh with a chilling burn. He turned quickly, the bright coppery stench of his own blood flooding his nostrils, gagging him as he threw up his left hand in a desperate attempt to defend himself. He managed to deflect the next blow, a sweeping arc headed for his throat and trembling against the pain coursing through his body, managed to raise his right arm and pull the heavy cowl from his attacker's face._

"_Geoffrey," he whispered, stunned and bewildered, shocked that one of his own knights had so savagely turned on him. He did not have time to dwell on the betrayal. Geoffrey freed his arm and thrust the dagger with murderous intent. Grissom managed to turn his head at the last minute, the blow glancing down his right cheek. A thin trail of blood welled up from the small slash and trickled down into his beard. _

_The Black Monk quickly recovered, years of training overriding emotion. A detached calmness settled about him, instinct replacing thought. Gritting his teeth against the burning agony of his wounds, Grissom rolled away from the tent wall. His whirling momentum propelled him directly into Geoffrey's legs and the slighter knight crashed to the ground in a cursing heap. Grissom risked a glance to the corner of the tent to check on Sandre. He breathed a sigh of relief that Geoffrey had not harmed the boy before barking a sharp order at the petrified lad. _

"_Sandre, run! Go fetch Nikolai and Varrick!"_

_The boy scurried from the tent and Geoffrey lunged full against Grissom once again, angling his body so that the force of his full weight would strike his opponent against the gaping wound splitting his bare chest. Gil grunted, ignoring the searing pain, concentrating on survival, victory. _

_The two warriors grappled, each trying to gain the upper hand. Geoffrey thrust with his knife, Grissom parried with his bare forearms and palms, his hands slick with free-flowing gore. Sand scuffed and billowed in agitated clouds around the two knights as they fought, the desert grit mingling harshly with blood and sweat upon their lips and tongues as they clashed in a grunting, pounding battle._

_When the dust settled, the silt drifting heavily to the floor of the tent, both knights were seated on the ground, Geoffrey's back to Grissom's chest. The Black Monk had his left arm twined tightly around Geoffrey's forehead to hold him still as his right hand held the dagger to Geoffrey's throat. Grissom wrapped his legs around Geoffrey's torso, pinning his arms to his sides; the more Geoffrey struggled, the more Grissom tightened the constricting pressure of his legs and pressed the blade into his foe's throat. The finely honed steel broke the skin beneath the man's quivering Adam's apple with ease and Geoffrey shuddered as a small trickle of blood ran down his neck to stain the collar of his grimy tunic._

"_Yield, Geoffrey, it is done. You have wounded me but I have the upper hand," he growled, pressing deeper, opening the thin gash on Geoffrey's neck a little wider. "I don't want to kill you."_

"_You must," the defeated man croaked, his terror and humiliation evident as his bladder released and the acrid stench of urine filled the air. "It has to end this way, Grissom. I haven't your courage," his voice cracking on a half-swallowed sob. " I can't face the executioner or your brother." _

_His brother? The Black Monk closed his eyes, reeling beneath the weight of Geoffrey's revelations. He knew Tarek despised him but never imagined that his own brother would pay to see him killed. Grissom reopened his eyes, struggling to refocus as the edges of his vision began to fade. He tightened his grip around Geoffrey's neck, demanding answers with one harshly barked, "Why?" _

_Geoffrey shook his head as best he could. "I don't know why, I swear I don't!" he squeaked as the knife bit deeper into his throat. "Tarek wanted to be rid of you once and for all and paid me handsomely to make the attempt."_

"_Money? You were going to kill me for a few pieces of gold?" The Black Monk's voice was dangerously flat and Geoffrey shivered._

"_You don't understand, Grissom. Tarek has owned me for years now. He knows about something, something Rayner and I did a long time ago and he has held it over us ever since. But, it doesn't matter now. I'm … sick … I have leprosy. I need money so I can pack up my family and move far, far away where no one knows me. The stigma, Grissom, of having to wear special clothing, ring a bell to let others know I am approaching, having to walk or ride on a certain side of the road depending on which way the wind is blowing … I can't do it."_

_Geoffrey abruptly ceased struggling to free himself from his captor's grasp and relaxed, slumping against Grissom as he bared his soul. He had come to terms with defeat and accepted his fate. Deep down he knew the Black Monk, despite his fearsome reputation as a hellhound upon the plain of war and the fact that he had tried to kill him, would be merciful and end things quickly. He would not suffer and would be spared further pain and indignity. Grissom would see to it that he was given a proper burial and would even say a few words over his grave._

"_The only hope I had of taking you was while you slept or running you through while your back was turned in battle. Either way, I chose a cowardly path. I haven't even the courage to end things myself," the disgraced knight whimpered on a broken sob._

_Grissom was quiet, absorbing the fallen knight's confession before finally clearing his throat to respond in a gentle whisper. "Suicide is the ultimate form of selfishness, Geoffrey. No man cowardly enough to take his own life has the courage to face his own death." He paused a moment, letting his words sink in. "A single cowardly act does not a coward make nor does it erase a courageous life."_

_Before he could question his actions, Grissom summoned his flagging strength and tightened his grip around Geoffrey's head. A swift, savage pull of the Black Monk's arm sank the blade deep into Geoffrey's flesh and neatly sliced his would-be hashshashin's throat from ear to ear in a macabre death grin. _

_Retching violently against what he had done and the heated spray of Geoffrey's blood dripping from his hands and arms, Grissom dropped the knife and shoved Geoffrey's wide-eyed corpse to one side. The Black Monk fell back with a graceless thud, his own blood pooling thickly on the sand beneath him as his eyes closed and he surrendered to the blessed darkness. _

"Geoffrey was your friend, wasn't he?" Sara sniffed, her voice tight. She slipped a hand beneath his undershirt, gently stroking the long raised scar that was Geoffrey's hateful legacy.

"I thought so," he sighed, curling a strong arm about her waist to pull her closer. "We served together for many years and saved each other more than once." He shot her a pained glance before turning away to regard the shadows flickering upon the far wall. His voice, when he finally spoke, was so soft and strained Sara had to practically climb atop him to hear his words. "I'm not sure which struck the cruelest blow – his blade or his betrayal."

_**Look around, around, look around**_

_**Every time I turn around**_

_**I'm not who I ought to be**_

_**Down, down, it gets me down**_

_**If every time I look around**_

_**There is something haunting me**_

Grissom folded an arm beneath his head, deep in thought as he stared at the shadows from the fireplace shifting and melding upon the ceiling. Sara's eyes caressed his form, the hunger within growing as she boldly looked, allowing her gaze to linger on the scarred ropy sinew of his forearms, the battle-toned biceps, the fine tuft of dark silky hair beneath his arm. She marveled at the latent strength hiding beneath his relaxed demeanor and, unable to resist, smiled softly as she reached out an elegant, fine-boned hand to smooth his sleep-rumpled curls. She watched with fascination as his tongue peeked through his lips as he studied the ceiling, wriggling and clenching her thighs together as she remembered the delicious sensation of that same tongue slipping past her lips to dance with her own.

"What are you thinking?" Sara cleared her throat and shook her head in an attempt to dispel the memories of Grissom's lovemaking, the hot, possessive intensity in his eyes as he stroked against her.

"I'm trying to figure out what Tarek hoped to gain from your mother's death. He had no way of knowing how your father would react; that my pending betrothal would be declared void and that I would be banished. He had to have some other goal in mind, something …"

"Wait," Sara commanded holding up a hand to silence him. "You were betrothed."

"Almost."

"To whom?"

"Sofia." He frowned and shook his head. "She has been as much a pawn as Geoffrey."

Sara rose on one elbow and eyed him sharply. "Did you love her?"

"Sofia?" His voice rose to nearly a squeak as he turned his head quickly to look at her.

"No," he said, his tone blunt and final. "The betrothal was a conspiracy on the part of your Grandfather and your Mother. They thought it would be good for me," he stated while rolling his eyes.

"You are friends, though," Sara persisted. "I have watched you and you are comfortable with her."

Grissom nodded in confirmation. "We have been friends for many years."

"Did you...share yourself with her?"

"Are you jealous?" Grissom asked with an arched brow, receiving a piercing glare in response.

"Leof-mon," he breathed, his expression softening as he reached for her hand and watched the play of fingers as they twined and grasped. "There was never anything of that nature between us. I have never truly kissed her, not like I have kissed you." He paused, his next statement a husky admission laced with an undercurrent of desire. "I never kissed anyone the way I kissed you."

Reassured by his answer, Sara stole a kiss and snuggled against him once more, caressing the skin over his heart while mulling over everything she had learned. "Father married Sofia very quickly after Mother's death. He doesn't love her so I always assumed he did so to provide me a step-mother." She waited for some sort of reaction from Grissom but his face revealed nothing. "Now, knowing how father blamed you and how badly he treated you, I tend to believe he did it to hurt you. He stole from you what he felt you took from him."

"Grief is a strange bedfellow, Leof-mon. It makes people do things they might not otherwise consider."

Sara drew a shaky breath, finally ready to broach the subject that had been weighing heavily upon her throughout the day. "Do you regret not being able to marry?"

"I wouldn't call it regret," he said, his expression thoughtful. "Had things progressed as planned so many years ago, the events of the past few weeks most likely would never have happened."

"That's not what I asked."

The look he gave her was curious, head cocked to the side as he attempted to discern precisely what she needed to hear. "I am saddened that I have never been able to marry and have a family of my own, but have no regrets where Sofia is concerned," he ventured in a halting voice, watching Sara carefully as he spoke. "She was never my choice and ours would have been a marriage of convenience."

Sara held her breath. For just a moment Grissom looked as if he was going to say something but then backed off. She knew deep down that he would not be displeased about their marriage but it would probably be a bit of a shock to him if his memories were incomplete. He had taken ill as a bachelor and awakened as a married man. She fought to stifle a nervous giggle. Even a man who returned her love, as Grissom most assuredly did, would be extraordinarily surprised to find himself thusly wed. Still, the confusion in his eyes as he fiddled with her smaller pendant resting on his chest… something was there, just below the surface. She could see it in the way he repeatedly glanced at her ring finger and how he absently rubbed a thumb along the underside of his own.

Yes, soon they would address this matter of their marriage, but first it was time to finish laying Tarek to rest once and for all.

"Tarek has ruined so many lives. I just wish … I want to know why he killed my mother."

"I am afraid the answer died with him, Lemman." Gris closed his eyes and heaved a weary sigh. "I shouldn't have taken him on. Had I … "

"No!" Sara scrambled to her knees, her tone as fierce as her expression. "Don't." Grissom pressed back more firmly into the pillows as she leaned closer to look him in the eye, angry brown clashing with startled blue. "Don't you dare apologize or feel guilty about what happened at the inn. Tarek was evil and deserved to die." Her voice dropped and she brushed a hand along his injured thigh. "I'm saddened that you were forced to battle your own brother for I know his death weighs heavily upon you but in all truth, I'm glad you killed him. I'm just disappointed that we may never know the full truth of the matter."

"All is not lost, Sara," he soothed, running a hand through her hair. "Rayner still serves your father in the Household Guard. The threat of the executioner's axe or the revelation of a long-buried secret can oftentimes persuade even the most reticent to sing."

"But…"

Grissom laid a gentle finger against her lips, stilling her words. "Sara, no more, not tonight." He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her gently. "Let it go."

_**Every tear that I'm not crying, every pain I am denying**_

_**Every lie I'm justifying, is like a ghost inside of me**_

_**Like a ghost inside of me**_

_**Like a ghost inside of me***_

* John Stewart, "Ghost inside of Me," Escape to Arizona, by John Stewart, Homecoming, 1993.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty "Timeless World"**

_**Let me take you to a timeless place**_  
_**Where time has ceased it's own cruel race**_  
_**We could be as careless fools**_  
_**Beyond the sky, beyond the rules**_

_**When those clocks no longer turn**_  
_**When there's still no values burned**_  
_**Perfect lives like perfect pearls**_  
_**Perfect love in a timeless world**_

"Gris?" Sara asked, uncertainty quivering on the simple syllable of his treasured nickname. She felt more than heard the answering "mmmhmmm" that rumbled from the depths of his sturdy chest. Drawing a shaky breath she tried to settle her thoughts. The moment of truth had arrived, the hour of her great confessional upon her. Plucking up her courage she smoothed the rumpled curls from his brow and continued.

"If we were merely Grissom and Sara, two common peasants toiling in yon stony field void of title and riches, royal obligation and high-born blood, would you go to my father to seek my hand in marriage?"

"Of course I would, Lemman," he yawned, nuzzling her ear, savoring the soft scent of lilac perfuming her flawless skin. "It has never been about not loving you or not wanting you but rather about being forbidden to have you."

Sara rubbed a slim finger along the smooth beveled edges of the golden pendant resting atop his breastbone. "And if all of those once insurmountable obstacles formerly blocking your path these many years were removed and we could publicly, with great fanfare before all of Britain and her Isles, be wed as Lord Grissom and Lady Sara, would you still desire to take me to bride?"

Gil turned his head to study her features as she slipped from his tender embrace. She knelt beside him, her knees bumping along his ribs and hands folded in her lap. The dancing shadows from the dwindling fire shrouded her face in a mysterious half-light of dawn and darkness that hid from him any secrets her eyes might reveal.

"Why all of the questions, Sara?" he frowned. Grissom's hand stroked along her thigh, smoothing the silken kirtle against her skin in an intimate, almost absent-minded gesture full of reverence and love. "You know full well any answers I might give." He paused, his mind searching frantically for something he might say to quell her fears and quiet the strange tension vibrating from her slender form.

_This love hits me so deliciously in the heart with its soft taste that hundreds of times a day I die from my pain and a hundred other times again I relive of joy …_

Grissom recited the words softly, the poem he heard from a traveling troubadour many years ago rolling easily off his tongue.

…_I suffer from a sickness that I find so wonderful that I prefer this evil to any other good! And since my sickness is so delicious for me, how much more will be good the happiness that will come after it!_

Gil's hands reached to enfold both of Sara's in a tender, tangled knot.

_When I see her, it really seems to me that her eyes, her face, her colour, that I'm quivering of fear as does the leaf against the wind. I have less mind than a kid, for I'm so much caught by love! And of a man who is so conquered, a lady can really have a great pity! (i)_

Sara lips twitched in a shadow of amusement at Grissom's lyrical recitation and drew their joined hands together to bestow a light kiss on his battle worn knuckles. She then gently disentangled her hands from his and wrapped her arms about herself in a tight hug.

"You may not remember," she began, drawing strength from the gentle smile on his face, "because you were frightfully ill and your fever very high. You saw people and conversed with people who no longer exist save in fading memory and sang hymns of your own death." Sara looked down and shook her head. There was no graceful way to impart the truth. Tightening her arms about herself as if steeling herself against his reaction, she simply spit out the words with neither preamble nor finesse.

"FatherRalphmarriedustwodaysago."

Grissom blanched, the rushed jumbled sentence weighing heavily between them. He lay emotionless, his body still and face a black slate until the import of that one hurried line of dialogue finally registered. Like the melting wax of a candle his features slowly shifted, his eyes widening and jaw slackening with shock. His mouth opened and closed several times while his lips formed and stuttered soundless words.

"What?" he finally managed to whisper as he sat up and shifted back against the pillows to recline against the wooden headboard. "What did you say?"

"FatherRalphmarriedustwodaysago."

Sara sighed heavily and bravely raised her eyes to meet his. She unwrapped her arms from about her middle and reached to lay a hesitant hand upon his shoulder. She watched cautiously as Grissom ran a weathered hand through his unruly hair and down his bearded jaw. He remained silent, eyes narrowed in concentration and right hand idly fiddling with the Maltese Cross pendant about his neck as he tried to sort through his jumbled fever memories to find, that which was true, and that which was not.

Unable to bear the fearsome tension any longer, Sara reached beneath her pillow and scooped up the two plain gold rings she had hidden earlier in the afternoon while Gil napped. She grabbed his left hand and slid the heavy wedding band upon his fourth finger without ceremony or words. She pressed her own ring into the palm of his right hand and held her left out for him to take. Grissom glanced repeatedly from the ring to her outstretched hand, his nervous gaze flitting between the two several times before finally clashing with Sara's equally apprehensive look.

"It was not a dream," he rasped as he kissed the simple gold band and slipped it on her finger. "I thought it all a vision conjured by the fever to taunt me."

"Look in the back of your Psalter," she directed in a quiet tone.

Grissom reached over and grabbed the worn prayer book from the bedside table and hurriedly thumbed the volume open to the final few pages. There, beneath the bleak notation he had made to mark the date and location of Tarek's death was the proof he sought. Father Ralph's flowing script was dark and sure upon the page, an official pronouncement of marriage. Gil's fingers trembled as they traced the simple words and his eyes, when they finally met hers, were flickering blue flames filled with wonder and hope.

"We were losing you, Gris. You were giving up and slipping away from us. Father Ralph said that if I loved you, truly loved you, the man behind the shiny armor and simple monk's robe, I need to act. I needed to show you. I needed to give you a reason to live, something for which you would fight to keep. The only thing I could think that you might want was that which had remained the most elusive. You need not honor our vows since you were not completely yourself when you made them but …"

_**In a timeless world**_  
_**Timeless girl**_  
_**Timeless love**_  
_**In a timeless world**_

_**In a timeless world**_  
_**Timeless girl**_  
_**Timeless love**_  
_**In a timeless world**_

The remainder of Sara's soft-spoken statement shrieked into a high-pitched squeal of surprise as Grissom tossed his Psalter to the floor and swiftly rolled her beneath him. Ignoring the tug of the stitches against his still-tender flesh, Grissom cradled her head with his large hands, intense blue eyes searching hers as his thumbs traced the graceful sweeping arch of her eyebrows.

"And you, Sara?" Grissom queried softly. "This is what you truly want?"

Sara's eyes fluttered open and regarded the intense blue ones staring at her with open curiosity. She was taken aback by the vulnerability and fear dancing across his features, the hint of uncertainty that caused him to question her motives.

Grissom sighed, hating the sliver of doubt that still niggled. "I know you freely made the choice to remain, Lemman. There is a world of difference, however, in staying here and assisting throughout my undoubtedly lengthy convalescence and staying with me forever."

In a startling moment of undeniable clarity, Sara truly understood the fragility of Gil's heart and how broken he believed himself to be. He would not hold her hostage to her vows and would annul their marriage without question if she but spoke the word. He was once again, in that single lonely fraction of time, the forlorn and confused curly-haired moppet stranded before the imposing iron gates of Saint Bennett's; he was the fresh-faced young man recently knighted exiled far from home and family for crimes he had not committed. Grissom in that moment was not the fearsome Black Knight. He was a lonely little boy and young man who believed himself unwanted and unloved.

"Gris," she began, her hands caressing his forearms in long gentle sweeps. Sara silently cursed those who had caused him such pain. Her good man, her kind and gentle man, knew only abandonment and betrayal. Everyone he loved with the exception of Father Ralph had turned on him and sent him away. She knew Gil's fears ran deep and the only way she knew to begin to allay a lifetime of hurt was to love him as deep and as well as she was able every single day.

"You always have been and always will be my choice. I would be your wife gladly under any circumstance you might bring to fore. I am yours, you are mine, forever, and I have never in my life known such happiness as this."

_**Timeless dreams, timeless songs**_  
_**Timeless starts when the time is gone**_  
_**Timeless moon, timeless beach**_  
_**Time lives on within our reach**_

The first touch of his lips upon hers was gentle, a ghost of a kiss brushing swiftly before retreating. His hands moved, one slipping about the silken nape of her neck, the other snaking beneath her back to pull her closer, flush against his chest. He watched as her smoky eyes slipped close and her lips parted, her hips arching against his larger body, seeking more contact, more pressure. For long moments he simply stared, drinking in the sight of her, his Sara, his wife. In his eyes she had never been more beautiful than she was at that moment, lying beneath him, her dark lashes fluttering and hands gripping and releasing his biceps.

"…Wherever you shall go, I will go: and where you shall dwell, I also will dwell …" (ii) he muttered as he lowered his face to hers. "He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord."(iii)

A whimper escaped Sara's throat and he was lost, growing bolder with each successive peck. Gil pulled her head to his and engulfed her lips with his own. Gone was the restraint and hesitation he had displayed throughout their earlier lovings. Lips and teeth clashed with tender fury as Grissom poured every ounce of his passion, desire, longing and love into his kiss.

Sara reeled beneath the onslaught, not realizing how much of himself Grissom had been holding back until he unleashed his emotions and gave them free rein. She embraced his fire and returned it with a fierce joy of her own. The slide of his sleek tongue met with no resistance and Sara's tongue curled about his in playful dance, her hands grasping and pulling at his hair to hold him close.

Still kissing his deft fingers made quick work of the satin laces and one thick, knowing hand slipped inside her kirtle to capture the tender flesh hidden within. Grissom moved slowly, hands alternately squeezing and kneading, sliding to capture the plump ripeness completely within his palm. Sara squirmed, her body flushing with arousal as a fine mist of sweat broke out along her torso. Gil rubbed his calloused thumb rubbing a thumb over a hard nipple and delighted in the feel of her tightly pebbled nubs slipping sweetly against his damp palms.

Sara arched into his hands, silently seeking more pressure, more contact and Gil obliged, pressing more firmly and relishing the sound of her appreciative groan. His beard tickled the sensitive of her graceful curve of her neck and his mouth moved lower to slide across her collarbones. He tasted every inch of her fragrant skin as his kisses trailed down to the opening of her kirtle. Releasing her breast, Grissom pushed the gown down over her shoulders and swept it from her body in an impatient rush. All of Sara in her naked glory was exposed to him; her creamy perfect skin, trim waist, long legs and fragrant nest of amber curls at the apex of her glorious thighs, all of her was her gift to him.

A sharp hiss escaped her parted lips when Gil's mouth closed around one of her achingly sensitive nipples. Sara held his head in place, nimble fingers entwined almost painfully in his rumpled curls as he suckled softly. His thumb played with the other, rubbing maddening circles and pulling gently with thumb and forefinger to mimic the suction of his mouth before switching and allowing a a single rough hand to move down to explore the quivering satin of her trembling abdomen and silken fluff below.

Infinitely gentle fingers fluttered between the soft dewy folds, gathering her savory and spreading it carefully along her shivering cleft. Grissom's clever thumb lovingly circled her pearly nub, as one then two then three fingers entered her gently. He wanted to thoroughly prepare her for what was to come but her sighs and squirms and bliss-filled moans were nearly his undoing. Sara was a virgin, inexperienced in the ways of lovers. Although he knew she would endure some discomfort from their eventual joining he wanted to make their first real loving as husband and wife as enjoyable as possible for her.

Soon, too soon, Sara lay breathless and spent, her pupils blown and regarding him with a profound look of adoration and love. Grissom quickly shucked his braies and rolled back to her, soothing her with gentle strokes along her hips and thighs. Once she lay pliant and relaxed from her glorious orgasm Gil set to work stoking her fires again. He kissed and fondled, caressed and rubbed with tender ruthlessness until the restless demands of his body would allow no further delay. Grissom moved above her, bracing his weight on his forearms and tried to slide deep within his lover. Oh, Sara was tight, so very tight and despite his gentle intentions and movements, tears still slipped from beneath her tightly closed lids.

_**Lost in time and we could meet**_  
_**Time is young as the young can be**_  
_**Timeless we would never end**_  
_**Timeless girl, timeless muse**_  
_**Timeless man, in a timeless world**_

"I am hurting you."

Sara tried to slow her breathing but he could see the mild panic in her eyes as he wiped away her tears. "Umm … I don't ... your pintle," she blushed. "It's ... big."

Grissom's eyes widened and he gently withdrew to rest beside her. "I'm so sorry, Lemman." His words whispered across her face as he kissed away her tears. "I do not want to hurt you."

"I have heard tell that the first time a man and woman lay together can be quite painful but I did not know, really know …" Sara sniffed while enfolding one of his large hands within both of hers. "Can we maybe just relax for a few minutes?"

Grissom nodded and chewed on his bottom lip as his brow furrowed in concentration. His eyes widened and he swiftly rose from the bed, limping across the cold stone floor to his messy worktable. Sara's curiosity quickly turned to amusement as she watched her soon-to-be lover rifle through a haphazard collection of dark brown bottles and earthenware crocks, biting the inside of her cheek to stifle her laughter as he impatiently lifted lids and sniffed at various jars before returning to the bed with a small brown bottle and triumphant smile.

"Cold flaxseed tea," he explained while settling back in bed. "This will make things … easier."

Sara's eyes widened in surprise as she watched Grissom tip the jar over his groin and drizzle a healthy portion of the thick brew over his erection. She watched, fascinated by his actions and movements, as he took himself in hand to coat himself with the pungent nutty scented concoction. Brushing his hand away, Sara took over the task and the friction from her hand and the heat throbbing from Gil's skin soon combined to transform the slimy, egg white like substance into a watery slippery lotion.

Time slowed and the heavy musk of renewed arousal filled the air. Sara stole a glance at her husband, enthralled with the piercing hooded gaze that followed every measured stroke of her long fingers. A bead of sweat slid from his temple and his hands fisted into the blankets as his hips began thrust helplessly into her warm, tight grip. She felt now familiar blooming warmth between her thighs and knew their time had come.

"I think I am ready to try again," she whispered with one last strong twisting stroke.

Grissom blinked slowly and drew in a shaky settling breath as her words finally cut through the sensual haze clouding his mind. He tugged gently on her hands, kissing both and tasting a faint trace of the nutty tea, as he settled his love astride his thighs. Brushing her hair away from her face Gil bestowed a kiss of great reverence and tenderness upon her parted lips.

"Slowly, Leof-mon. I am in no hurry here."

Rising to her knees, Sara positioned herself and began to sink down upon her knight inch by careful inch. The flaxseed tea, strange as it was, definitely aided her slow slippery descent. She paused, allowing her inner muscles to relax, sinking lower and lower until Grissom was finally buried deep within her. Blowing out a deep breath, Sara remained still. She felt full, nearly unbearably so, but as she sat motionless impaled by her lover she could feel her body adjusting; what was once a burning and almost unbearable stretching sensation had mellowed. She could feel the heat from Grissom's penis throbbing within her tender flesh and made a tentative upward motion.

Grissom's surprised grumble and fluttering eyelids assured her that all was well so she moved again, rising a bit higher each time. Whispered words of praise and love filled her soul and every slippery cleaving of her flesh bound her more tightly to her mate. Sara's innocence burned away with every white-hot stoke of flesh upon flesh and soon she was riding Gil hard with a sense of seductive confidence. She loved having her powerful knight spread out beneath her, his hand gripping her hips to aid in her movements, his head thrown back, neck corded and taut.

While the pain of Grissom's initial penetration had faded to a dull warm ache, Sara knew with a sense of womanly certainty that she would not experience the same pinnacle of shattering pleasure she had attained before. This time, this first merging of man and woman, husband and wife, was for Grissom, just for her love. The next time, and all the times thereafter, well those lovemakings would be for both. Leaning forward, hands braced on his sturdy chest, Sara kissed his fuzzy chin and told him to let go.

Fifteen years of celibacy combined with the unbelievable heat and snugness of Sara's lithe body dancing atop his soon proved to be too much. Grissom tried to maintain the gentle pace but his body would not be denied. Faster and faster he moved, hips snapping and back arching with each frantic push. Gil buried his face in her neck and with one last guttural grunt shuddered and all but collapsed on top of her.

For long moments he simply rested, head cradled against her breast, and savored the feel of her slender fingers running through his hair and across his sweaty shoulders. "I love you," he breathed and kissed her softly before moving off to lie beside her.

Peace, a gentle rolling peace like no other he had ever known filled his soul as he lay quietly with Sara held safely within arms. He brushed a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead and marveled at the tranquility. In all of his years of travels and searching he had finally found that for which he had been seeking all these many years. He was, at long last, home.

_**Timeless world**_  
_**Timeless girl**_  
_**Timeless love**_  
_**In a timeless world**_  
_**In a timeless world**_  
_**Timeless girl**_  
_**Time is young in a timeless world (iv)**_

i Brun, Jean-Frederic ed. _Bernat de Ventadorn_. Occitan Poetry 980-2006. Medieval Poetry: The Fair Kingdom of Love.

ii Ruth 1:16

iii Proverbs 18:22

iv John Stewart, "Timeless World," Johnny Moonlight, by John Stewart, Neon Dreams, 2000.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**A/N: Just need to take a moment to thank my amazing betas, Cincoflex and Sidle77. Thank you so very much, ladies, for all of your hard work and for the sanity checks. Oh, and for listening to me gripe when the chapter failed to flow and frustrated me to no end. You are the best.**

**Chapter Twenty-One **

**"Wheatfield Lady"**

_**Ah, wheatfield lady,**_

**_in the wheatfield we were young_**

**_Ah, my wheatfield lady,_**

**_I can taste you on my tongue_**

**_And leaving out before me,_**

**_the endless highway lies_**

**_And the lady's eyes grow hungry when she knows the eagles fly_**

"According to tradition," Grissom yawned, wincing at the early morning sunlight flooding the bedchamber. He stretched, lazily flexing a powerful arm in the air before lowering it again to wrap snuggly about Sara's bare shoulders to pull her closer. "I am supposed to present you with some sort of gift today, such as a piece of household furniture, to stand as compensation for the loss of your virginity and to celebrate the consummation of our vows."

Sara snorted, a decidedly unladylike laugh laced with equal parts amusement and outlandish disbelief. "And what, pray tell, have you to offer this sorely abused maiden, Sir Knight? What bit of simple carpentry do you deem suitable recompense to stand in stead for the price of my innocence?" Chuckling, she rose on her knees to run a fine-boned hand along the carved headboard and quirked a merry eyebrow towards her husband. "This sturdy bed perhaps? 'Tis after all the scene of the crime as it were."

A silent huffing chuckle spoke of Grissom's delight with her playful banter even as he pulled her back down to rest again within his arms. Sara had other ideas, however, and quickly wiggled free from his loose embrace to lay full length atop his large frame. She dropped a chaste kiss upon his lips before propping her elbows on his sturdy chest and resting her chin in her hands. Mischief danced in her dark eyes as she shot him a puckish grin.

"I have nothing to offer you," Gil shrugged. His hands moved slowly down her back, curving over her sweet bottom to add pressure and align their hips more tightly together. Grissom was far more interested in Sara's lithe nudity awakening his own naked flesh than continuing the conversation. His caresses grew bolder as he struggled to concentrate and express his thoughts.

"Everything I own and all that I am I gladly yield," he murmured against her throat, punctuating his words with gentle nips and long soothing sweeps of his tongue. "All I have is yours for the taking."

Grissom then laid his head back on the pillow and sighed with frustration. "I am not good at this sort of thing, Leof-mon," he confessed. "I know not what would appeal to such a vivacious young bride. All of my studies and travels did little to prepare me for choosing a gift that might please you."

"I have never had need of material goods so it generally does not occur to me that others do. I have already bestowed upon you the two earthly items that hold any depth of meaning for me," he said, brushing his fingers along her pendant and wedding band. "If there is something else you desire, say the word and it will be yours. I will travel to the Holy Land and back to fulfill your heart's fondest wish."

Moved by his simple words, Sara pressed a tender kiss to his lips. She sighed softly and reluctantly pulled back. "Gris," she said, watching his face carefully as she fingered his rumpled curls. "You needn't present me with gifts. I already have everything I will ever want or need." She pressed a slim finger against his mouth to silence him when he cleared his throat as if to interrupt. "You have already fulfilled my heart's desire and given me the greatest gift possible. Grissom, you have given to me yourself, all of you, your heart, your mind and your body. You are all that I have ever dreamed of and all that I could ever hope for."

Unable to help himself, Grissom slipped a hand beneath her hair to grasp her nape and pull her to him. Their lips and teeth and tongue clashed in a hungry, almost desperate kiss, each moved by the blatant need in the other and the profound emotion they had just shared. Gradually their kisses slowed into slow pecks along jaws and throats until at last their lips stilled and they took a few moments to just breathe and savor the firm press of flesh upon flesh.

Lying atop Gil's war-hardened body, absently tracing her finger down the line of the long raised scar, Sara raised her head and her eyes widened as she was struck by a sudden realization. She quickly sat up and planted her hands on his broad shoulders, unconcerned that the blankets slipped from her shoulders to pool around her waist. Grissom blinked, momentarily startled by her sudden movement but totally captivated by the tantalizing view of Sara's glorious chest. He did not hesitate to take advantage of the fruit now poised so delectably within his reach, running a brazen finger down her sternum before capturing the fullness of a ripe breast within his large palm.

"What about you, Grissom?"

"Hmmmmm?" Gil barely registered the question, wholly distracted by the provocative sight of his young bride perched so temptingly atop his thighs.

Arching into his hands, Sara struggled to speak as Grissom's caresses grew bolder, more demanding. "You have every right to stand before my father and demand a hefty dowry. I _**am**_ a princess, you know."

Grissom shook his head, his hair tickling along her skin as he nuzzled between her breasts. "Be you a princess or a pauper, love, I would never accept a dowry on your behalf. Your father did not give you to me nor make me agree to take you to wife. You gave of yourself and of your own free will and I accepted on the same terms. I will not be paid for doing that which I have so long desired."

Lifting Sara with tender purpose, Grissom sighed a soft moan of satisfaction as their bodies joined and she once again lay flush against his chest. He began to thrust, slowly at first, their hips dancing in stunning syncopation, and each sought to urge the other towards the pinnacle of pleasure.

In a quieter moment, when their passion had been sated, Grissom broke the hazy silence with a whispered declaration. "I want nothing from your father save to be left alone to live my life with you and the right to lay down my sword and fight no more."

**_Rock me crazy, wheatfield lady_**

**_Oh sweet highway, rock me home_**

**_Rock me crazy, wheatfield lady_**

**_Take me to my lady at the end of the road_**

And so it began. As Grissom healed, he and Sara spent most of their time together in the keep, getting to know each other on a more intimate level and strengthening their emotional bond. The newly wed couple took leisurely walks in the deep forests bordering Grissomshire and enjoyed light horseback rides on the bridal paths and into the village, weather and Grissom's leg permitting. Long hours were spent simply sitting and talking before the roaring fire in the Great Hall or warmly ensconced in the cozy privacy of their bedchamber.

One rainy winter's eve found the small family gathered in the Great Hall following the evening meal. Sandre lay sprawled upon a thick pallet before the fireplace struggling through a difficult Latin translation with Grissom's help and Conrad and Myria were off tending to household matters of their own. It was a quiet time, a time of peace and of family. Sara threaded a needle and basked in the easy serenity, loving the domesticity and sense of togetherness that had been sorely missing from her life since the death of her mother. Heather and Sofia played their matronly roles in trying to establish a familial feel within the palace walls but neither came close to capturing the beautiful simplicity of Grissom's home, their home, _**her**_ home.

Placing her sewing basket on the floor by her chair, Sara stood and shook out the simple dark brown undershirt she was embroidering for Sandre. The young squire was growing like a weed and it was all she and Myria could do to keep up with his clothing. She rolled her head from side to side, stretching out the kinks in her neck acquired from bending over her stitchery for the last hour before retrieving her teacup from the warmth of the flagstone hearth in the Great Hall. Sara sipped her tea thoughtfully, looking about, taking in the features of the hall. As a place to gather and celebrate, the hall was nothing special and would be considered downright monkish by most. No tapestries hung from the pale mortared stone walls and the only real furniture of note besides the long oaken dining table, benches and a few scattered chairs was the great monstrosity of a clock. Her father's palace, while richly appointed and bustling with people always seemed stark and cold even with every massive fireplace fully alight. The only conclusion Sara could reach was that Grissom and his unique little family provided the warmth sorely lacking in her father's castle. Rich furnishings and ever-present lords, barons, aides and warriors all vying for her father's attention did not make for a home.

Sara settled back into her chair and watched with warm affection as Gil patiently guided Sandre through his lessons. The lad had blossomed under Grissom's unorthodox tutelage. Whereas most squires were little more than servants, seeing to every want and need of their patron knight, Sandre's position was quite different in that he was a full member of the household. He had his own room and was allowed a certain amount of free time every day. Sandre had been encouraged to concentrate on those areas of study that interested him the most with the understanding that he needed to at least touch upon the ones that did not such as poetry and dancing. With every passing day Sandre grew more settled and confident, transforming from the shy uncertain boy Sara had met a few scant months prior into a happy, confident young man.

Satisfied with Sandre's progress, Grissom poured another mug of tea and scooted his chair next to Sara's so that they were seated side by side. As Gil's arm slipped around her shoulders to pull her close, Sara sighed, filled with a newfound contentment and inner peace.

"I think I have loved you forever," she breathed, caressing his knuckles with her thumb. "You were always a constant presence in my life despite your frequent and oftentimes lengthy absences. You were ever in my thoughts and prayers even when I despaired of ever again seeing you." She snuggled closer, abandoning her heavy mug so that she could lay her head on his shoulder. "And when you were about the keep, well those were some of the happiest days I remember." Sara looked up and smiled tenderly at her husband. "You were a kind and gentle soul who always made time for the little girl constantly grabbing at his hand, begging to go riding or for a walk or sit by the stream to share a picnic lunch. You allowed me to sit on your lap at meals and curl up with you in your chair after dinner. I cannot even count the number of times you must have carried me to bed after I fell asleep on you."

Grissom dropped a kiss on her fragrant tresses. "I met you as a newborn babe, Sara," he murmured, "and loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. Only your parents, Grandfather and the midwife saw you before me. You have grown from a squirming wrinkled of bundle of joy with a lone tuft of dark hair upon your head to an elegant young woman whose sheer beauty rivals that of any other I have seen."

"Oh, Gris, you have always been my very own personal knight in shining armor," Sara sighed, flushed with pleasure from his heart-felt compliment. She took a moment to nuzzle his neck and pluck his Maltese Cross from beneath his tunic. The golden pendant had become a touchstone for her, a means by which to gather her emotions and collect her thoughts. "When the pain of your absence grew too strong, I would often sneak into the hall to stare at the tapestries to relive the tales of valor, marvel at the bravery and courage of my knight and pray even harder that he would return to me. Not to my father but to me."

Grissom raised an eyebrow, curious when Sara started to chuckle but was pleased that some of her childhood memories were happy. In many ways, Sara's childhood had been as lonely as his had been. She had been raised entirely at home, surrounded by an adoring family and yet was oftentimes left alone to her own amusements. He worried about her, especially following Rivka's death when James' grief was at its sharpest and most painful, and made it a point to give the young princess as much attention as possible when he visited.

"You have always been my hero, Gris, a larger than life almost mythical warrior, a fierce yet infinitely gentle knight who made the time to sit in the child-size chairs in my room and have parties with me. I still giggle when I think back on some of those high teas we shared." Sara batted her eyes and twirled a finger around one of Grissom's curls. "You looked positively dashing with pink ribbons tied up in your hair," she laughed with a wickedly impish grin.

A strangled cough caught their attention and both glanced towards the pallet near the hearth. Sandre had both hands clamped tightly over his mouth in a vain attempt to contain his merriment. Grissom blushed and shot Sara a good natured glare, understanding all too well why Sandre was so tickled at the thought of his fierce teacher and mentor willingly allowing himself to be decorated with frills and ribbons. Sara worked hard to hide her own amusement behind her hand, finally allowing a full belly laugh to break free when Grissom threw up his hands in exasperation.

Grissom shook his head and with a silent nod towards the stairs gently ordered Sandre to bed. The lad pulled an exaggerated pout and grumbled with good-natured humor. He definitely wanted to remain in the hall to hear more stories about the Black Monk, but swiftly gathered his book, parchment, quill and ink. Sandre rose from his pallet and folded his blanket before approaching Sara to give her a good night peck on the cheek. He paused just a moment before leaning over and wrapping a thin arm around Grissom's neck in a hesitant but sincere hug. Grissom, though momentarily surprised, delighted in Sandre's boyish embrace and returned the young squire's affection with a fatherly squeeze and peck upon his brow.

Warmed by the interaction between her two "men", Sara watched her husband with a mixture of adoration and pride as he accompanied Sandre to the foot of the stairs and bade the youngster sleep well. She knew Grissom harbored very real reservations about his abilities to properly raise Sandre. Providing the boy with a good home and education was not difficult; Grissom was a learned and wealthy man. His doubts lay with his ability to tend to Sandre's emotional needs. Gil still struggled to express all but the most basic of feelings and knew little of paternal love. Sara told her husband numerous times he needn't worry; Sandre adored him and had no doubts that the fierce knight cared for him as more than just a student and squire. The lad's status as a member of the household spoke volumes about the depth of Grissom's affection.

Grissom watched as Sandre scurried up the stone stairs and slipped into his bedchamber. When convinced the young man was safely abed he moved to stand before his bride. He placed his hands upon the armrests of her chair and leaned down until they were face to face. "I still look good with pink ribbons in my hair," Grissom declared loftily before capturing her lips with his own.

**_Ah, wheatfield lady, shinin' in the sun_**

**_Ah, my wheatfield lady, call me and I come_**

**_Roll me down oh highway sound,_**

**_sting my wheels to run_**

**_Drive me wild, highway child 'till my wheatfield lady comes_**

**_Rock me crazy, wheatfield lady_**

**_Oh sweet highway, rock me home_**

**_Rock me crazy, wheatfield lady_**

**_Take me to my lady at the end of the road_**

"What is troubling you, Leof-mon," Grissom asked as he settled his weary frame in bed with a relieved sigh. "You have been very quiet this evening. Have you taken ill?"

"No, Gris, I am fine," she assured him as she placed a quick kiss on his graying temple. "I am just curious about something."

"And what is it that has your magnificent mind churning, Lemman?"

"Well," she began, pulling the blankets up to their shoulders, "when Myria showed me the wooden box that held our wedding rings, there was also within a pouch of stones she said were to be mine as well." Gil nodded, encouraging her to continue. "Some of the stones I recognized and some I did not. Will you tell me what they mean and why you chose them for me?

"Of course I will, Leof-mon," he replied with a tilt of his head towards the fireplace. The elegantly engraved box had been moved from the dusty storeroom and now held a place of honor on the mantle in their bedroom.

Sara rose from the bed and scurried barefoot across the cold stone floor to the mantle. She worked the simple latch with nimble fingers and grabbed the heavy silken pouch before rushing back to their cozy bed and burrowing quickly beneath the blankets in an effort to escape the persistent chill in the room. A startled gasp and mildly irritated glance from her husband signaled his displeasure when she playfully planted her cold feet along his furry calf in an effort to warm her toes.

Heaving a mournful sigh of feigned annoyance, Grissom heaved himself up, plumped a couple of fluffy down pillows behind his back and leaned back against the headboard. He carefully dumped the contents of the pouch onto his lap and waved a weathered hand at the colorful display. "All of these are you, Leof-mon."

"This," he said, selecting a beautiful polished disc of apple green with deep black lines spidering across its gleaming surface, "this is chrysoprase and it stands for virtue. You are a very moral person, Sara, and your virtue is above reproach."

Sara snickered as she took the smooth thin disc from his hand. "Father Ralph might see fit to argue that point," she informed him as she traced a finger over the stone's smooth surface. "I am quite certain he thinks me a horeling or at least possessing very loose morals now that he knows we shared a bed and some intimacies before we were wed."

The horrified expression on Grissom's face quickly quelled her laughter.

"How dare he think that," Gil growled. "A horeling," he spat in contempt. "I dare any man to say that in my presence for they will sorely rue uttering that word."

"Shhhh…Grissom. It's okay," Sara soothed, running a comforting hand along his thickly muscled forearm. "I was just kidding about the horeling part so you needn't defend my honor. It was a jape, Gil, a really bad jape." She watched carefully as he blew out a breath and made a concerted effort to relax. "Truth be told," she said while trailing her fingers from his arm to caress softly across his chest, "Father Ralph was remarkably non-judgmental once I assured him that you in no way took advantage of me."

"I would never!" His indignation was a palpable living thing, pulsing across the room in angry waves."

Sara wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him close. "I know you wouldn't and now he does as well. I told Father Ralph that if anyone took advantage, it was me taking advantage of you." She nuzzled along his jaw, breathing in his earthy scent, allowing it to drape about her like a comforting quilt. "He offered to hear my confession," she muttered against his beard.

"And?" Grissom asked with an arched eyebrow. "Did you allow it?"

"I told him I would not confess nor would I ever apologize for loving you, she said pushing back so she could hold him at arm's length and look him in the eye. "And I won't, Gris, I will not apologize to anyone, not to Father Ralph and not to my own father," Sara stated fiercely while plopping the chrysoprase back into his open palm. "I'll not apologize for having all my dreams come to life."

The ferocity of her declaration left him speechless so Grissom responded the only way he could. He curled a large hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her close for a deep long kiss. Lips and tongues met and stroked, soothing, reaffirming, saying all the things Gil could not find the words to express but wanted Sara to know. On and on he lingered, drawing out a response and drinking her fire, responding with his own.

Finally they parted and with a last chaste peck on her swollen lips, Grissom dropped the chrysoprase back into the little bag and fished another from the pile on his lap. He selected a bright red stone fashioned in the shape of a heart and held it lightly against her chest. Sara shivered as the cold stone made contact with her heated flesh but placed her hand over his to keep the bright red heart in place.

"This is red jasper and stands for love. Sara, your capacity for love and the purity of that loves astounds me every moment of every day. You heart is open and willing to accept all who venture near regardless of rank or station in life. Myria, Sandre, Nik, Varrick, Heather and even Sofia. How many others have you taken to your breast, named as friend and wrapped up in your loving concern?" He pulled the stone away and placed it back in the bag. "It goes without saying that every moment of every day I am also astounded and very thankful for the love you have for me."

Clearing his throat, he reached for seawater colored gem. "This is beryl," Gil revealed, fingering a small teardrop shaped blue green crystal. "Beryl stands for purification and it reminds me that even as a child you have always done so much more than any other person to cleanse my spirit of its melancholy. Whenever I am with you I am at peace. You make me happy," he said with a smile as he held the stone before him and watched the firelight refract against the tiny occlusions on its surface. "The color also reminds me that your love is like the sea, Sara, deep and mysterious and boundless."

"This is green jasper," he said, placing the beryl in the bag and grabbing a bright green stone from the dwindling pile, "and it stands for faith. Many of us share a faith in God and country but only you have had faith in me. You believe in me and always have, even when others could not or would not see the man behind the armor or robes." Swallowing tightly against the lump in his throat, Gil continued in a pain-riddled whisper. "At times it was only the knowledge of your faith in me that bade me rise every morning to face the dawning sun."

Sara raised her arms and moved to enfold him with but he raised a hand and bade her stop. "No Sara, please let me finish," came his quiet rasp. "If you stop me now I may never again have the courage to tell you all of this."

Nodding her agreement, the princess folded her hands in her lap and watched as her husband gathered three very different stones in the palm of his hand. He pointed to each stone in turn, and swiftly gave her an explanation for each. The brilliant white stone, white jasper, signified gentleness while the crystalline amethyst, a stone of radiant pale purple served to remind him of the was the scent of lilac that was as much a part of her as her beautiful smile and soulful brown eyes. The final stone looked like a pale link egg. The beautiful ovate shaped stone was chalcedony and represented a harmony of body, mind and spirit. A delicate pink rose etched upon the surface symbolized motherhood and purity.

Grissom placed the three stones in the bag and selected a deep green cinquefoil-shaped stone. "This is emerald," he said tracing the five round-tipped spokes emanating from the circular center. "Emerald is the symbol of faith and hope. Without either of these, I would have given up and had been killed in battle long ago. My faith in God saw me through the bleakest and loneliest of times but the smallest sliver of hope I allowed myself that some day I would be free to court you made the desolate and solitary nights more bearable."

The next stone selected was a deep ebony Maltese Cross. Grissom cleared his throat again and shot Sara a brief grin. "This one is fairly obvious and needs no further explanation except to note that when I envisioned the finished wedding girdle I placed this stone in the center to signify my love and devotion to my wife, my God and my country. This is also my pledge to you. I will always be your strength and I will always watch over you."

"These, Lemman," he said holding up the last of the stones, two deep chocolate ovals of highly polished mahogany obsidian that when turned into the firelight shone a sunburst of gold gleaming throughout. "These are your eyes, dark and lovely but with an inner fire like the one inhabiting this stone." Gil stroked a finger along her cheek. "You have that fiery element, Sara, a great spark of life within. You have an amazing strength that allows you to stand up for what you believe to be right, a strength of conviction that is awe-inspiring in its intensity and righteousness."

"Grissom." Sara whispered his name, swiping at the tears gathering in her eyes. Never before had she been so moved by his words. She knew he loved her but still waters run deep and she never knew just how deeply his ran. Collecting these stones had taken time, not to mention the care and work that had gone into the shaping, carving and polishing. She knew in her heart that Grissom had done the work himself, no doubt a skill he had learned during his youth at St. Benet's or from the stone masons who were also a part of the enormous Crusader armies. It saddened her on some level for she could picture in her mind's eye Grissom hard at work at his lonely workbench and wheel crafting objects of beauty that he was certain would remain forever hidden. He had poured out his love for her into the stones for he long believed they would be the only visible, lasting tribute of his devotion to her.

"How can you see all of that in me?" she sniffed. "I am none of what you have described. I am just Sara, daughter of the king. Save for my birthright, there is nothing special about me."

Grissom pulled the strings of the pouch closed and laid it back on the nightstand. He gathered Sara close, raised her chin so he watch her reactions and began to speak in a low, rough voice. "This, he said, gesturing to the silken pouch, "is what I see every time I look into your eyes, watch you sleep or sit before the fire with you to share a thought or memory. You need to see yourself through my eyes, Lemman. You are infinitely special, the most rare and precious among all the stones in England."

**_Rock me crazy, wheatfield lady_**

**_Oh sweet highway, rock me home_**

**_Rock me crazy, wheatfield lady_**

**_Take me to my lady at the end of the road1_**

**Next Chapter: Sofia goes on trial and answers to the charge of treason**

1 John Stewart, "Wheatfield Lady," The Phoenix Concerts, by John Stewart, RCA, 1974.


End file.
